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v/  V  I  ■}  : 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 
THESE  AUTHORS. 


"  One  of  the  last  of  The  Sun's  reviews  was  a  criticism  of  the  novels 
of  Anthony  Trollope,  which  may  be  said  to  have  been  the  first  critical 
essay  that  satisfactorily  defines  that  popular  author's  place  in  English 
literature.  There  have  been  several  similar  critical  articles  in  The 
Sun  which  should  be  sufficient  to  give  that  journal  as  distinguished  a 
character  as  Sainte-Beuve  gave  to  the  paper  with  which  he  was  so 
long  connected." 

Brooklyn  Union. 


3%* 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


BY 


J.  C.  HEYWOOD,  A.M.,  L.L.B., 

AUTHOR  OF  "HEKODIAS,"  "ANTONIUS,"  "  SALOME,"  "HOW  WILL  IT  END?' 
ETC.,  ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  CO. 
1877. 


Copyright,  1877,  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Crown  of  the  Work.  (Edward  Bulwer  Lytton.)  7 
A  Captivating  Novelist.  (William  Black.)  .  .  23 
A  Charming  Story-Teller.  (Miss  Thackeray.)  .  39 
An  Ingenious  Moralist.  (George  Eliot.)  .  .  .  57 
A  Novelist  who  means  Business.  (Anthony  Trollope.)  78 
A  Crude  Novelist.  (Rhoda  Broughton.)  .  .  .97 
A  Gossiping  Novelist.  (Mrs.  Oliphant.)  .  .  .  113 
An  Over-rated  Poet.  (Alfred  Tennyson.)  .  .  .126 
The  Poet  of  the  Sierras.  (Joaquin  Miller.)  .  .  148 
The  Philosopher  of  Crime.  (Nathaniel  Hawthorne.)  161 
A  Man  of  Taste.  (Henry  James,  Jr.)  .  .  .183 
An  American  Humorist.  (Bret  Harte.)  .  .  .  197 
A  Son  who  would  Emulate  his  Father.  (Julian 

Hawthorne.)  '  .  .224 

Mr.  Motley's  Latest  History.   (J.  Lothrop  Motley.).  236 
A  Literary  Curiosity.     (John  Walker  Vilant  Mac- 
beth.)  251 

A  Kussian  Novelist.    (I.  S.  Turgcnieff.)     .       .       .  265 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME 
THESE  AUTHORS. 


THE  CROWN  OF  THE  WORK. 

The  Parisians,  Lord  Lytton's  last  composition, 
is  a  worthy  crown  to  the  work  of  a  long,  busy,  and 
uncommonly  successful  life.  The  fragment  entitled 
"  Pausanias,  the  Spartan,"  was  indeed  published  last 
of  all,  after  Lord  Lytton's  death,  but  chiefly  com- 
posed many  years  before  that  event. 

It  is  a  rare  thing  that  the  later  writings  of  a  pro- 
lific author  should  be  his  best,  should  even  hold  an 
equal  rank  with  those  which  made  and  established 
his  fame.  This  thing  Lord  Lytton  achieved.  Not 
a  few  of  the  most  competent  critics  will  esteem  his 
final  work,  considered  from  every  point  of  view, 
superior  to  anything  of  its  class  which  he  had  pre- 
viously done.  Long  ago  he  had  accomplished  enough 
for  fame — fame  that  made  his  name  familiar  to  the 
best  intelligence  of  two  continents.  Yet  his  industry 
never  languished.    Within  the  period  of  about  forty- 


8 


110  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


six  years,  commencing  when  he  was  twenty-one  and 
ending  with  his  death,  he  wrote  more  than  forty 
books,  a  number  of  pamphlets,  made  some  impor- 
tant translations,  and  was  for  some  time  editor  of  a 
monthly  magazine,  besides  serving  as  a  not  undis- 
tinguished member  of  Parliament  for  more  than 
fifteen  years,  and  afterward  as  a  Cabinet  Minister. 
Novelist,  poet,  dramatist,  essayist,  artist,  a  scholar, 
a  statesman  given  rather  to  the  study  than  to  the 
practice  of  politics,  he  was  at  the  same  time  no 
mean  metaphysician,  no  despicable  philosopher.  Ac- 
quainted with  much  abstruse  and  obsolete  learning, 
especially  that  which  most  stimulates  the  imagina- 
tion, he  was  fascinated  by  the  mysteries  dwelling  in 
that  "  cloud-land"  which  bounds  ordinary  natural 
phenomena  and  the  regular  experience  of  life.  Some- 
times seemingly  carried  off  his  feet  thereby,  he  always 
returned  safely  and  planted  himself  firmly  on  the 
solid  foundations  of  common  sense,  making  his  base 
broader  and  stronger  without  diminishing  his  reach 
into  the  regions  of  fancy.  Toying  with,  examining, 
using,  as  an  artist,  so  much  of  forbidden  knowledge, 
so  much  of  visionary  theories,  so  much  of  unclassified 
wonders  as  suited  his  purpose,  yet  he  always  did  so 
as  a  master  magician,  never  as  the  weak  and  trem- 
bling wretch  who  is  torn  and  destroyed  by  the  strange 
powers  which  he  has  too  daringly  evoked.  Truly, 
Lord  Lytton  was  a  man  of  many  sides,  capable  of 
showing  many  phases,  inclined  in  his  youth  to  ex- 
hibit but  the  thinner  ones,  to  the  discerning  plainly 


THESE  A  UTIIOliS. 


9 


a  crescent,  growing  steadily  on,  till  full  and  round 
and  mellow  he  sank  beneath  the  horizon,  never  to 
come  back  again. 

To  say,  in  the  sense  used  above,  that  a  man  is 
many-sided,  means  that  he  has  in  himself  the  germs 
of  many  characters;  that  by  the  force  of  his  genius 
these  may  be  presented  to  the  comprehension  of 
others  as  so  many  distinct  personages.  The  works 
of  all  English  writers  except  Shakspeare  mark 
more  or  less  definitely  the  limits  of  their  powers  in 
this  respect ;  that  is,  the  number  and  kind  of  char- 
acters which  they  could  bring  into  view.  Between 
many  of  their  creations  family  resemblances  may  be 
discovered,  and  they  all  move  within  parallel  planes 
more  or  less  elevated  and  more  or  less  widely  sep- 
arated. Lord  Lytton  preferred  the  higher  levels. 
He  had  no  sympathy  with  vulgarity  of  any  kind, 
either  of  the  rich  or  of  the  poor ;  could  see  in  it 
nothing  ludicrous  or  amusing.  Whether  his  char- 
acters were  of  patrician  or  plebeian  birth  he  endowed 
them  with  a  certain  natural  delicacy  and  refinement. 
He  liked  elegance,  and,  so  far  as  was  consistent  with 
the  artistic  principles  which  governed  his  composi- 
tions, he  filled  his  world  with  elegant  people.  In 
youth  this  predilection  and  the  egotism  natural  to 
that  period  of  life  pushed  him  to  the  verge  of  affecta- 
tion, that  is,  of  foppery;  in  his  maturer  years  it 
fostered  in  him  a  kind  of  mild,  genial,  aesthetic  epi- 
cureanism. He  has  always  a  kindly  feeling  for  a 
man  given  to  the  most  delicate  enjoyments  of  the 

2 


to 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


palate,  sympathizes  with  him  who  finds  pleasure  in 
an  exquisite  toilet,  but  cherishes  more  lovingly  him 
whose  chief  gratifications  are  those  of  the  intellect, 
who  esteems  genius  and  takes  delight  in  the  contem- 
plation of  its  beautiful  creations. 

With  the  lapse  of  years  he  seemed  to  grow  into  a 
health  of  mind  and  body  more  robust  than  that  of 
his  youth;  nerves  and  muscles  became  stronger  with- 
out losing  their  sensitiveness,  so  that  he  could  gener- 
ously admire  a  young  fellow  who  would  rough  it  for 
pleasure,  and  upon  occasion,  like  Kenelm  Chillingly, 
lick  a  bully.    He  hates  slang,  loves  common  and 
vigorous  Anglo-Saxon  words  and  idioms.   He  takes 
only  brief  note  of  trifles,  rarely  descends  far  into 
details.    In  sketching  a  landscape  he  sees  only  the 
more  picturesque  and  nobler  objects,  uses  only  so 
many  strokes  of  his  pencil  as  are  necessary  to  make 
these  distinct.    He  cannot  let  the  ideal  form  and 
beauty  of  the  composition  escape  him  and  concen- 
trate his  enthusiasm  on  some  unsightly,  trivial  thing, 
because  minute  search  detects  it  in  the  scene.   Yet  for 
him  all  nature  seemed  to  have  a  kind  of  intelligence 
and  sensibility.    He  had  a  sort  of  unconfessed  pagan 
feeling,  not  a  belief,  that  Dryades,  Oreades,  Naiades 
lived,  enjoyed,  and  suffered.   The  philosophical  turn 
of  his  mind  led  him  to  generalize,  to  extract  the 
essence  of  a  class  and  crystallize  it.    He  liked  better 
from  many  models  to  compose  one  Venus  than  to 
make  the  most  truthful  copies  of  many  fish-wives. 
His  imagination  did  not  seize  one  phase  of  a  low  or 


THESE  A  unions. 


11 


eccentric  character,  fix  it,  play  with  it,  make  a  puppet 
of  it,  pull  the  wires  and  laugh  immoderately  at  the 
mechanical  repetition  of  the  same  words,  grimaces, 
gestures.  When  his  plan  necessarily  comprises  an 
eccentric  personage  the  character  has  several  phases 
and  is  not  vulgar.  Even  in  people  of  the  baser  and 
more  ignorant  kind  he  likes  gradually  to  develop 
latent  refinement. 

In  his  more  recent  works  especially,  this  disposi- 
tion to  call  passive  worth  into  action,  to  educe  ex- 
cellence by  the  discipline  of  circumstances,  to  bring 
good  to  the  surface,  is  strongly  indicated.  Though, 
while  young,  egotism  and  ambition  may  have  tempted 
him  to  seek  fame  for  its  own  sake  by  the  means 
which  appeared  to  him  most  likely  to  arrest  hon- 
orable attention,  he  seems  never  to  have  lost  sight  of 
the  purpose  he  had  in  view  when  he  wrote  "  Pel- 
ham."  "  It  struck  me  that  it  would  be  a  new,  a 
useful,  and  perhaps  a  happy  moral,  to  show  in  what 
manner  we  might  redeem  and  brighten  the  common- 
places of  life ;  to  prove  (what  is  really  the  fact)  that 
the  lessons  of  society  do  not  necessarily  corrupt,  and 
that  we  may  be  both  men  of  the  world,  and  even  to 
a  certain  degree  men  of  pleasure,  and  yet  be  some- 
thing wiser — nobler— better."  He  had  then,  by  the 
composition  of  "  Mortimer,"  "  Falkland,"  and  some 
sketches  of  a  like  kind,  rid  his  youthful  bosom,  to  a 
good  measure  at  least,  of  its  "  perilous  stuff,"  a  false 
and  mawkish  sentiment,  not  untainted  with  a  sickly 
misanthropy,  "  common  enough  to  all  young  minds 


12 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


in  tli  mi-  first  bitter  experience  of  the  disappointments 
of  the  world."  Any  overstraining  and  weakness  of 
sentiment  apparent  in  his  earlier,  has  been  more  than 
atoned  by  the  manly  strength  and  practical  wisdom 
of  his  later  works. 

The  apothegms  scattered  through  his  books,  par- 
ticularly those  written  in  the  decline  of  life,  if  col- 
lected into  one  vo  ume  would  alone  entitle  him  to 
a  high  rank  as  a  careful  and  universal  observer,  a 
profound  and  acute  thinker  and  analyst,  a  liberal- 
minded  and  proficient  philosopher.  With  increasing 
years  the  desire  to  be  useful  grew  stronger  within 
him,  and  more  completely  regulated  the  action  of 
his  powers.  To  his  matnrer  vision  well-directed 
genius  and  talent  were  the  worthiest  things  to  be 
found  among  men's  titles  to  distinction.  Genius  he 
venerated,  and  for  it  always  enforced  respect.  Not- 
withstanding his  own  advantages  of  birth  and  station 
he  was  a  model  republican  in  the  world  of  letters, 
or,  rather,  a  model  aristocrat,  giving  the  highest 
places  to  the  best.  Superior  mental  capacity  well 
used  rendered  some  of  his  characters,  though  of 
humble  birth,  peers  of  the  proudest  ;  and  by  a  like 
exercise  of  similar  faculties  the  noble  showed  his 
best  claim  to  honor.,  He  loved  ideality  not  only  for 
its  beauty  but  for  its  usefulness.  He  made  it  prac- 
tical, in  accordance  with  the  bent  of  his  mind;  for 
he  was  a  dramatic  poet  as  well  as  a  novelist,  and  a 
great  authority  has  said  that  "the  dramatic  poet  is 
eminently  practical  "    Doubtless  he  understood  that 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


13 


ideality  is  actually,  in  some  sense,  as  real  as  any 
other  quality  of  the  human  intellect;  and  that  the 
realists  are  inconsistent  with  tlieir  own  theories 
when  they  strive  to  eliminate  it.  At  any  rate  he 
gives  these  gentlemen  some  hard  knocks  in  a  very 
entertaining  way,  showing,  among  other  things,  that 
men  and  women  are  constantly  practising  ideality, 
— that  is,  acting  a  part. 

"  Real  women  !  I  never  met  one.  Never  met  a  woman 
who  was  not  a  sham — a  sham  from  the  moment  she  is  told 
to  be  pretty  behaved,  conceal  her  sentiments,  and  look  fibs 
when  she  does  not  speak  them.'1 

It  is  Kenelm  Chillingly  who  speaks  here.  But 
the  heroine  of  "  The  Parisians"  writes  likewise  to  a 
friend : 

"  The  impression  left  on  my  mind  by  the  performances 
I  witnessed  is  that  the  French  people  are  becoming  dwarfed. 
The  comedies  that  please  them  are  but  pleasant  caricatures 
of  petty  sections  in  a  corrupt  society.  They  contain  no 
large  types  of  human  nature ;  their  witticisms  convey  no 
luminous  flashes  of  truth ;  their  sentiment  is  not  pure  and 
noble — it  is  a  sickly  and  false  perversion  of  the  impure  and 
ignoble  into  travesties  of  the  pure  and  the  noble. 

"  Great  dramatists  create  great  parts.  One  great  part, 
such  as  Rachel  would  gladly  have  accepted,  I  have  not  seen 
in  the  dramas  of  the  young  generation.  I  do  not  complain 
so  much  that  French  taste  is  less  refined.  I  complain  that 
French  intellect  is  lowered.  The  descent  from  Polyeucte 
to  Ruy  Bias  is  great,  not  so  much  in  the  poetry  of  form  as 
in  the  elevation  of  thought ;  but  the  descent  from  Ruy 

2* 


14 


IIO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


Bias  to  the  best  drama  now  produced  is  out  of  poetry  alto- 
gether, and  into  those  flats  of  prose  which  give  not  even 
the  glimpse  of  a  mountain  top." 

As  a  dramatic  poet  Lord  Lytton  mourned  the 
decadence  of  the  spirit  and  the  art  poetical.  Not 
by  his  poems  alone  has  he  proved  himself  a  poet; 
his  novels  show  him  to  be  such.  "  Harold,"  for 
instance,  is  a  grand  historical  tragedy,  a  poem  in 
prose,  the  poetic  form  distinctly  visible  through  the 
graceful  folds  of  its  drapery. 

He  himself  early  avowed  his  indebtment  to  art. 

"  I  studied  with  no  slight  attention  the  great  works  of 
my  predecessors,  and  attempted  to  derive  from  that  study 
certain  rules  and  canons  to  serve  me  as  a  guide ;  and,  if 
some  of  my  younger  contemporaries  whom  I  could  name 
would  only  condescend  to  take  the  same  preliminary  pains 
that  I  did,  I  am  sure  that  the  result  would  be  much  more 
brilliant.  It  often  happens  to  me  to  be  consulted  by  per- 
sons about  to  attempt  fiction,  and  I  invariably  find  that 
they  imagine  they  have  only  to  sit  down  and  write.  They 
forget  that  art  does  not  come  by  inspiration,  and  that  the 
novelist,  dealing  constantly  with  contrast  and  effect,  must, 
in  the  widest  and  deepest  sense  of  the  word,  study  to  be 
an  artist." 

Hence  every  character  in  any  one  of  his  novels 
was  designed  with  artistic  reference  to  all  the  others 
and  to  the  entire  plan  of  the  work.  They  were 
drawn  and  arranged  so  as  to  be  in  proportion  and 
harmony  with  the  grand  outlines  of  the  structure. 
His  compositions  are  not  to  be  examined  and  judged 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


15 


piecemeal,  but  in  their  integrity.  His  characters  are 
contrasts  and  foils  to  each  other,  so  disposed  that 
whatever  they  do  or  say  has  a  sufficient  motive  and 
adds  some  necessary  part  in  the  rounded  whole. 
Their  discussions  of  politics,  ethics,  aesthetics,  or 
other  dry  subjects,  are  not  essays  interpolated  by  the 
author,  but  a  part  of  the  action,  made  interesting 
because  on  the  conclusions  reached  by  them  the  con- 
duct and  therefore  the  fate  of  the  characters  is  seen 
in  some  measure  at  least  to  depend.  These  char- 
acters are  not  wanting  in  distinctness,  individuality, 
consistency,  vitality.  Yet  they  may  seem  to  lack 
these  qualities  to  a  person  who  accepts  as  models 
more  striking  automata  going  through  an  unvarying 
series  of  extravagant  actions,  puppets  repeating  the 
same  words  with  unchanging  inflections  and  eccentric 
movements,  and  grotesque  caricatures.  A  caricature 
may  attract  attention  when  a  portrait  would  be 
passed  without  notice.  Nevertheless  the  portrait  is 
truer  to  nature.  An  eccentric,  an  ill-bred,  or  a 
repulsive  man  might  make  himself  observed  and 
remembered  where  a  gentleman  would  not  be  es- 
pecially remarked.  Hence,  to  many  readers,  Lord 
Lytton's  characters  seem  to  want  the  strongly-marked 
individuality  found  by  them  in  the  works  of  some 
of  his  contemporaries.  Doubtless  the  result  of  such 
injudicious  comparisons  has  often  been  to  deprive 
him  of  commendation  fairly  earned  and  to  bring  on 
him  ill-advised  disparagement. 

He  had  set  thoughts  and  phrases,  and  his  favorite 


16 


HOW  TJU:}'  ST  A' IKK  MK, 


families  or  classes  of  good  and  bad  people,  which 
suggest  the  fixed  course  and  limits  of  his  creative 
powers.  They  appear,  one  after  another,  in  his  suc- 
cessive works,  through  which  their  relationship  may- 
be traced.  But  in  dealing  with  them  he  seems 
always  to  have  acted  more  or  less  rigidly,  according 
to  a  rule  recently  formulated  by  a  distinguished 
critic,  as  follows:  " The  only  means  of  composing  a 
natural  and  solid  whole  is  to  write  the  history  of  a 
passion,  or  of  a  character,  to  take  them  up  at  their 
birth,  to  see  them  increase,  alter,  become  destroyed, 
to  understand  the  inner  necessity  of  their  develop- 
ment." His  imagination,  which  never  seemed  to 
flag,  was  strong,  vivid,  wide,  and  far-reaching;  his 
style,  with  rare  exceptions,  pure;  his  diction  uni- 
formly elegant.  Indeed,  the  diction  of  his  person- 
ages may  appear  too  uniform,  lacking  in  variety  of 
style  and  individual  peculiarities.  But  then  most 
of  his  characters  belong  to  the  well-bred  and  edu- 
cated world,  where  all  persons  talk  alike. 

He  was  no  bigot,  no  fanatic.  He  believed  in  real 
progress ;  not  in  revolution  or  theories  which,  from 
their  very  nature,  were  impracticable  or  destructive. 
He  had  no  sympathy  with  those  who  fancy  that  any 
movement  is  an  advance,  and  that  the  more  violent 
the  movement  the  greater  the  progress  must  be. 

"  '  There  is  no  sign  of  old  age  in  this  country,  sir ;  and 
thank  heaven  we  are  not  standing  still  !' 

"  £  Grasshoppers  never  do  ;  they  are  always  hopping  and 
jumping,  and  making  what  they  think  "progress"  till 


these  a  unions. 


17 


(unless  they  hop  into  the  water  and  are  swallowed  up  pre- 
maturely by  a  carp  or  a  frog)  they  die  of  the  exhaustion 
which  hops  and  jumps  naturally  produce.  May  I  ask  you, 
Mrs.  Saunderson,  for  some  of  that  rice  pudding?'  " 

Yet  he  would  have  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead, 
and  every  man,  whatever  his  rank,  station,  or  the 
traditions  of  his  family,  act  so  wisely  that  his  advan- 
tages of  mind  and  position  should  be  turned  to  the 
best  account,  improving,  controlling,  establishing. 
Especially  in  his  last  work  does  he  exhibit  states- 
manlike views  of  no  cheap  or  illiberal  kind, — the 
political  wisdom  garnered  during  a  long  association 
with  eminent  politicians,  and  by  personally^  observing 
the  practical  workings  of  different  systems  of  polity, 
as  well  as  the  drift  and  the  questions  of  political  dis- 
cussion among  the  people  at  large. 

So  far  as  a  fruitful  author  expresses  himself  in 
his  creations  that  expression  is  not  found  in  one 
work,  or  in  one  character,  but  in  all.  The  mature 
Lord  Lytton  is,  however,  probably  more  completely 
set  forth  in  "  The  Parisians"  than  in  any  other  of 
his  books.  The  seeming  affectation,  insincerity, 
mysticism,  cynicism  expressed  in  subtle  irony,  of  his 
early  days,  has  disappeared,  and  the  ripe  man  stands 
before  us  undisguised,  strong,  hearty,  healthy,  lib- 
eral, sincere,  earnest,  a  kindly  guide,  philosopher, 
and  friend.  As  one  says  who  held  the  most  affec- 
tionate and  intimate  relations  with  him, — 

"  The  satire  of  his  earlier  novels  is  a  protest  against  false 
social  respectability ;  the  humor  of  his  later  ones  is  a  pro- 


18 


HOW  THEY  ST  HIKE  ME, 


test  against  the  disrespect  of  social  realities.  By  the  first 
he  sought  to  promote  social  sincerity  and  the  free  play  of 
personal  character ;  by  the  last  to  encourage  mutual  charity 
and  sympathy  among  all  classes  on  whose  inter-relation 
depends  the  character  of  society  itself." 

But  the  change  was  something  more  than  one  of 
purpose  here  so  clearly  and  truthfully  stated ;  it  was 
that  produced  by  the  ripening,  enriching,  and  uni- 
form perfecting  of  a  full,  a  many-sided  character; 
and  from  this  stronger,  more  exuberant,  more  equably 
teeming  soil  sprang  the  broader,  higher,  more  robust 
purpose. 

The  plan  of  "  The  Parisians,"  and  the  scene  and 
time  of  its  action,  were  so  chosen  that  practical  ques- 
tions of  the  highest  interest  and  importance,  both 
political  and  social,  were  necessarily  discussed  by  the 
characters,  and  illustrated  by  their  conduct  and  their 
careers.  The  curtain  rises  at  Paris  in  the  early  spring 
of  1869.  The  personages  are  many.  First  appears 
a  young  legitimist  marquis  from  Brittany,  poor, 
proud,  holding  himself  aloof  from  politics  until 
Henry  V.  shall  have  his  rights,  his  head  rilled  with 
old-time  notions  of  what  a  gentleman  may  and  may 
not  do,  ignorant  of  Paris,  to  which  he  has  just  come, 
and  of  the  great  active  world  which  he  had  never 
before  entered  ;  but  withal  honorable,  upright,  sensi- 
ble,— subject  nevertheless  to  temptations  in  common 
with  all  men.  With,  and  as  a  foil  to  him,  comes  a 
person  of  undistinguished  birth,  energetic,  intelli- 
gent, educated,  kind-hearted,  a  good  fellow,  who 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


19 


makes  the  best  of  things  as  he  finds  them,  earns 
money,  and  will  use  it  for  a  friend.  Later  a  cynical 
count  enters,  one  who  adheres,  theoretically  at  least, 
and  practically  in  a  kind  of  negative  way,  to  the 
Orleans  family.  Two  rival  bankers,  the  one  of  pa- 
trician the  other  of  plebeian  parentage,  have  not 
unimportant  parts.  In  contrast  with  these  busy  men 
are  nobles  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  looking 
down  on  the  Emperor  and  his  government,  always 
conscious  of  their  pedigree,  doing  nothing  in  and 
enjoying  nothing  of  Paris  but  its  pleasures.  Har- 
monizing these  contrasts,  like  intermediate  colors  in 
a  picture,  are  other  nobles  of  the  same  quarter,  some- 
what more  practical,  going  in  for  the  main  chance  in 
a  clandestine  way.  Another  member  of  the  same 
family  of  nobles  represents  still  another  class.  Him- 
self guiltless,  to  save  an  indiscreet  but  distinguished 
lady's  reputation  he  confesses  that  he  has  done  what 
must  banish  him  from  the  society  of  all  reputable 
men,  from  Paris,  from  France.  He  changes  his 
name,  wanders  through  the  world,  meeting  with 
many  adventures,  always  conducting  himself  bravely, 
honorably,  and  returns  to  Paris,  still  in  disguise,  to 
conspire  with  socialists,  communists,  and  any  dis- 
contented persons  of  whom  he  may  make  instru- 
ments for  the  destruction  of  the  Emperor  and  the 
overthrow  of  the  Empire.  Yet  another  class  is  rep- 
resented by  a  duchess  of  the  same  family  on  the  one 
side,  on  the  other  descended  from  one  of  the  first 
Napoleon's  marshals,  a  strong  partisan  of  the  Em- 


20 


110  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


pire  and  admirer  of  Napoleon  III.  A  high-bred 
young  Englishman,  distinguished  by  his  talents  as  a 
writer,  in  knowledge  a  man  of  the  world,  in  senti- 
ments pure  and  noble,  in  character  unsullied,  plays 
the  lover's  part.  Charged  with  a  secret  mission  in 
the  result  of  which  he  is  mysteriously  interested,  he 
searches  almost  hopelessly  for  the  person  whom,  more 
than  himself,  that  mission  concerns.  At  first  sight 
conceiving  an  overpowering  love  for  a  woman  of 
whose  name  even  he  is  ignorant,  when  he  becomes 
acquainted  with  and  finds  her  worthy  of  all  homage 
and  affection  he  feels  bound  in  honor  not  to  do  any- 
thing to  win  her  love,  at  least  till  the  result  of  his 
mission  shall  be  known  to  himself.  Yet  uncon- 
sciously he  makes  his  passion  evident  to  the  deli- 
cate, sensitive,  poet-girl,  whose  heart  secretly  responds 
to  his  throb  for  throb.  A  learned,  shrewd,  witty, 
manly,  professed  critic  and  man  of  letters,  and  his 
intelligent,  amiable,  sympathizing  wife  show  talent 
in  healthy  action.  A  young  poet,  effeminate,  un- 
stable, half  consumed  by  absinthe,  without  principles, 
ready  to  write  whatever  is  likely  to  give  him  most 
notoriety  in  regard  either  to  politics  or  religion  or  for 
the  destruction  of  both,  shows  talent  morbidly  active. 
These  are  admirably  contrasted  types  of  Parisian  lit- 
erary men.  A  prosperous  lawyer,  who  helps  his  rich 
client  to  pluck  his  poor  client,  acts  a  part  not  found 
alone  in  this  drama.  A  clever  American  colonel, 
into  whose  mouth  are  put  some  supposed  American- 
isms amusingly  ill  chosen,  and  for  the  most  part 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


21 


incomprehensible  to  Americans  save  for  the  author's 
marginal  explanations ;  this  colonel's  bright,  pretty, 
and  admired  spouse,  who  of  course  talks  of  women's 
rights,  but  is  at  the  same  time  the  most  dutiful,  sub- 
missive, and  affectionate  wife,  are  good  enough  speci- 
mens of  the  American  residents  in  Paris.  A  quiet, 
thoughtful,  sensible,  liberal-minded  German  count 
moves  somewhat  in  the  background.  The  good, 
generous,  beautiful  girl-poet,  full  of  genius  and  the 
best  kind  of  common  sense,  with  whom  the  high- 
bred Englishman  falls  in  love,  is  the  heroine.  Her 
companion,  an  Italian  artist  once,  now  a  music- 
teacher,  a  tender,  affectionate  Avoman  with  charac- 
teristic foibles  and  whims;  another  girl,  young,  just 
from  school,  ingenuous,  sweet,  a  banker's  daughter; 
a  handsome  young  woman  of  the  nameless  class,  the 
poet's  sweetheart,  concealing  grand,  womanly  qual- 
ities within  her  soiled  character ;  some  good  men  and 
women  of  the  lower  middle  class ;  some  socialists, 
communists,  conspirators;  some  specimens  of  the 
wasps,  drones,  and  hangers-on  of  society, — such, 
with  those  more  important  already  named,  are  the 
materials  which  the  author  brings  in  contact,  unites, 
incorporates,  makes  plastic,  and  forms  into  a  well- 
proportioned  group,  a  drama,  and  that  drama  is  what 
Paris  was  from  the  spring  of  1869  to  the  end  of  the 
communistic  rule,  or  rather  riot,  in  the  city. 

The  work  was  never  quite  finished.  It  was  in 
some  sense  like  the  last  speech  of  a  dying  man,  and 
it  ends  with  incomplete  phrases,  broken  sentences. 

3 


22 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


The  narrative  is  interrupted  toward  the  close  by 
gaps,  periods  of  silence,  during  which  the  action 
moves  on  unnoticed.  Yet  such  action  and  its  con- 
clusion are  indicated  in  this  way  with  sufficient  clear- 
ness to  satisfy  curiosity  and  in  a  great  measure  content 
the  reader. 

The  book  is  thoroughly  interesting.  The  winding 
courses  of  love  and  political  intrigues  mingle  their 
currents,  and  run  on  with  accelerated  movement  to 
the  common  termination.  In  its  completeness  is  pre- 
sented a  graphic  sketch  of  "  the  bravest,  the  most 
timid,  the  most  ferocious,  the  kindest-hearted,  the 
most  irrational,  the  most  intelligent,  the  most  con- 
tradictory, the  most  consistent  people  whom  Jove, 
taking  counsel  of  Venus  and  the  Graces,  Mars  and 
the  Furies,  ever  created  for  the  delight  and  terror 
of  the  world, — in  a  word,  the  Parisians." 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


23 


A  CAPTIVATING  NOVELIST. 

In  an  honorable  way,  Mr.  William  Black  has 
drawn  public  attention  to  himself.  He  has  made 
rapid  advances  toward  a  foremost  place  among  Eng- 
lish novelists.  Henceforward,  however,  he  must 
move  with  caution.  His  latest  work  is  not  his  best. 
Success  seems  to  have  rendered  him  over-desirous  to 
bring  out  new  books.  He  ought  strongly  to  resist 
such  an  inclination,  lest  his  upward  course  reach  no 
higher  point  than  that  attained  in  "A  Princess  of 
Thule." 

Respect  for  this  writer's  ability  is  excited  by  what 
his  books  incidentally  promise  of  yet  better  things, 
as  well  as  by  what  he  has  really  achieved  in  them. 
Constant  suggestions  of  reserved  power,  whose  limits 
have  not  yet  been  indicated,  largely  augment  the  ad- 
miration awakened  by  the  power  actually  exercised. 
Like  most  men,  he  can  do  some  things  better  and 
more  easily  than  others,  and  he  likes  to  do  his  best 
so  well  that  he  occasionally  gives  the  reader  a  little 
too  much  of  a  good  thing.  This  remark  is  more 
especially  true  of  his  skill  and  inclination  to  describe 
wild  or  sublime  natural  scenery  and  homely  land- 
scapes.   What  has  been  said  of  Dickens  is  emphati- 


24 


IIO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


cally  true  of  this  author:  " He  has  the  painter  in 
him,  and  the  English  painter.  Never,  surely,  did  a 
mind  figure  to  itself  with  more  exact  detail  or  greater 
energy  all  the  parts  and  tints  of  a  picture." 

Read  this  delineation  of  a  gathering  storm  at  sea 
near  the  coast : 

"  The  pinnace  was  put  about,  and  run  toward  a  certain 
dark  speck  that  was  seen  floating  on  the  waves ;  while  at 
the  same  moment  over  all  the  west  there  broke  a  great  and 
sudden  fire  of  yellow, — streaming  down  from  the  riven 
clouds  upon  the  dusky  gray  of  the  sea.  In  this  wild  light 
the  islands  grew  both  dark  and  distant ;  and  near  at  hand 
there  was  a  glare  on  the  water  that  dazzled  the  eyes  and 
made  all  things  look  fantastic  and  strange.  It  lasted  but 
for  a  moment.  The  clouds  slowly  closed,  the  west  grew 
gray  and  cold,  and  over  all  the  sea  there  fell  the  leaden- 
hued  twilight  again,  while  the  bow  of  the  boat — going  this 
way  and  that  in  search  of  the  dead  bird — seemed  to  move 
forward  into  the  waste  of  waters  like  the  nose  of  a 
retriever." 

Look  at  this  picture  of  the  storm  coming  down  : 

"  He  was  still  looking  far  over  the  mystic  plain  of  the 
waves  toward  that  lurid  streak,  when  he  seemed  to  hear  a 
strange  sound  in  the  air.  It  was  not  a  distant  sound,  but 
apparently  a  muttering  as  of  voices  all  around  and  in  front, 
hoarse,  low,  and  ominous.  And  while  he  still  stood  watch- 
ing, with  a  curiosity  which  dulled  all  sense  of  fear,  the  slow 
widening  of  the  blackness  across  the  sea,  a  puff  of  wind 
smote  his  cheek,  and  brought  the  message  that  those 
troubled  voices  of  the  waves  were  deepening  into  a  roar. 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


25 


Near  the  boat  the  sea  was  calm,  and  the  darkening  sky 
quite  still ;  but  it  seemed  as  though  a  great  circle  were 
enclosing  them,  and  that  the  advancing  line  of  storm  could 
be  heard  raging  in  the  darkness  without  being  itself  visible. 
In  the  intense  stillness  that  reigned  around  them,  this 
great,  hoarse,  deepening  tumult  of  sounds  seemed  to  find  a 
strange  echo;  and  then,  while  the  men  were  getting  the 
boat  put  about  and  made  ready  for  the  squall,  the  water  in 
the  immediate  neighborhood  became  powerfully  agitated,  a 
hissing  of  breaking  waves  was  heard  all  around,  and  the 
first  blow  of  the  wind  struck  the  boat  as  if  with  a  hammer." 

And  then  in  what  follows  notice  that  the  author 
is  a  poet  as  well  as  a  painter.  Observe  how  glee- 
fully he  rides  in,  diffuses  himself  through,  becomes  a 
part  of  the  wild  action  of  winds  and  waters : 

"  As  the  boat  rose  and  sank  with  the  waves,  and  reeled 
and  staggered  under  the  tearing  wind,  the  Whaup,  dashing 
back  the  salt  water  from  his  eyes  and  mouth,  and  holding 
on  to  the  prow,  peered  into  the  wild  gloom  ahead,  and  was 
near  shouting  joyously  aloud  from  the  mere  excitement  and 
madness  of  the  chase.  It  was  a  race  with  the  waves  ;  and 
the  pinnace  rolled  and  staggered  down  in  a  drunken  fashion 
into  huge  black  depths  only  to  rise  clear  again  on  the 
hissing  masses  of  foam ;  while  wind  and  water  alike — the 
black  and  riven  sky,  the  plunging  and  foaming  sea,  and  the 
great  roaring  gusts  of  the  gale  that  came  tearing  up  from 
the  south — seemed  sweeping  onward  for  those  dusky  and 
jagged  rocks  which  formed  the  nearest  line  of  land." 

Now  note  how  the  writer  is  not  only  a  poet,  but  a 
dramatic  poet ;  how  he  mak^s  the  incidents  of  this 

3* 


26 


IIOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


storm  into  a  scene  in  a  drama,  bringing  human 
hearts  into  its  play, — swaying,  wringing,  holding 
them  on  the  rack, — suggesting  vastly  more  than  is 
visible  to  the  spectator  : 

"  The  darkness  fell  fast,  and  yet  as  far  as  they  could  see 
there  was  no  speck  of  a  boat  coming  in  from  the  wild  and 
moving  waste  of  gray.  To  the  girl  standing  there  and 
gazing  out  it  seemed  that  the  horizon  of  the  other  world — 
that  mystic  margin  on  which  in  calmer  moments  we  seem 
to  see  the  phantoms  of  those  who  have  been  taken  from  us 
passing  in  a  mournful  procession,  speechless  and  cold-eyed, 
giving  to  us  no  sign  of  recognition — had  come  close  and 
near,  and  might  have  withdrawn  behind  its  shadowy  folds 
all  the  traces  of  life  which  the  sea  held.  Could  it  be  that 
the  black  pall  of  death  had  fallen  just  beyond  those  gloomy 
islands,  and  hidden  forever  from  mortal  eyes  that  handful 
of  anxious  men  who  had  lately  been  struggling  toward  the 
shore?  Was  the  bright  young  life  that  she  had  grown 
familiar  with,  and  almost  learned  to  love,  now  snatched  away 
without  one  mute  pressure  of  the  hand  to  say  farewell?" 

Later  on  is  a  scene  more  tragical,  a  climax  at  the 
end  of  the  last  act  but  one,  and  the  great,  resistless 
storm  has  a  part  in  it,  like  relentless  destiny  in  the 
ancient  drama  : 

"Then  the  first  shock  of  the  storm  fell, — fell  with  a 
crash  on  the  fir  woods,  and  tore  through  them  with  a  voice 
of  thunder.  All  over  now  the  sky  was  black  ;  and  there 
was  a  whirlwind  whitening  the  sea,  the  cry  of  which  could 
be  heard  far  out  beyond  the  land.  Then  came  the  rain  in 
wild,  fierce  torrents  that  blew  about  the  wet  fields  and 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


27 


raised  red  channels  of  water  in  the  roads.  Coquette  had 
no  covering  of  any  sort.  In  a  few  minutes  she  was 
drenched ;  and  yet  she  did  not  seem  to  know.  She  only 
staggered  on  blindly,  in  the  vain  hope  of  reaching  Saltcoats 
before  the  darkness  had  fallen,  and  seeking  some  shelter. 
She  would  not  go  to  meet  Lord  Earlshope.  She  would 
creep  into  some  hovel;  and  then,  in  the  morning,  send  a 
message  of  repentance  to  her  uncle,  and  go  away  some- 
where, and  never  see  any  more  the  relations  and  friends 
whom  she  had  betrayed  and  disgraced. 

"  The  storm  grew  in  intensity.  The  roar  of  the  sea 
could  now  be  heard  far  over  the  cry  of  the  wind ;  and  the 
rain  clouds  came  down  over  the  sea  in  huge  masses  and 
were  blown  down  upon  the  land  in  hissing  torrents.  Still 
Coquette  struggled  on." 

This  on  the  shore.  Out  there  in  the  midst  of  the 
black  tempest,  the  red  lightnings,  the  frothing  waves, 
Lord  Earlshope  is  drowning.  His  last  prayer  must 
have  been  for  Coquette.  But  in  the  raging  tumult 
no  human  ear  could  hear  it.  He  had  written  her  a 
letter ;  in  that  letter  he  had  asked  forgiveness,  had 
made  such  reparation  as  he  could,  and  then  gone 
away  on  his  yacht  alone  to  avoid  doing  her  a  great 
and  irreparable  wrong,  sailing  out  into  the  mist  and 
the  darkness  which  were  never  clearly  to  be  lifted 
from  the  termination  of  his  short  voyage  and  of  his 
patient  and  sorrowful  life. 

The  passages  quoted  above  from  "A  Daughter  of 
Heth"  are  fair  enough  samples  of  a  large  portion  of 
that  book.  Grand,  solemn,  sublime  things  fire  this 
author's  imagination.    One  after  another  he  seizes 


28 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


on  and  fixes  in  his  pages  their  noblest  aspects.  He 
has  the  Northern  fancy  powerfully  developed.  He 
grasps  the  pen  when  Ossian  would  have  seized  the 
harp.  Both  could  feel  inspiration  from  the  same 
sources.  Mr.  Black  can,  however,  picture  views 
which  to  the  ordinary  observer  are  far  from  sublime. 
To  him  nothing  seen  on  the  earth,  in  the  air,  or 
amid  the  waves,  seems  to  be  commonplace.  In  every 
vista  he  beholds  new  and  strange  beauties.  All 
through  that  journey  described  in  the  book,  called 
"  The  Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton,"  he  is  busy 
painting  English  and  Scotch  landscapes, — the  sky, 
the  clouds,  the  sea  when  it  is  visible,  the  islands  when 
they  come  in  sight.  As  he  paints  he  tells  wittily, 
with  quiet  and  charming  humor,  his  simple  story, — 
that  is,  he  places  the  four  or  five  personages,  care- 
fully and  distinctly  drawn  and  sufficiently  contrasted 
in  color,  in  each  picture,  so  disposed  that  the  lovers 
are  gradually  brought  nearer  and  nearer  together. 
Of  course  this  journey  is  northward.  His  heart — 
generally  the  hearts  of  his  heroines  also — yearns 
toward  the  north  country,  longs  for  its  airs,  its 
scenery,  its  odors,  the  simple  hospitality  and  friend- 
ship of  its  inhabitants.  The  sea  only  does  he  love 
still  more.  He  must  be  an  enthusiastic  yachtsman  ; 
delighting  especially  to  sail  along  the  coast  of  the 
Highlands  and  among  the  Western  Islands,  and 
feeling  great  joy  in  being  carried  on  the  bosom  of 
the  deep. 

With  all  his  fondness  for  the  grand  and  gloomy, 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


29 


he  is  not  too  sombre,  not  over-serious,  never  weakly 
sentimental,  never  morbidly  melancholy,  often  sport- 
ive, sometimes  gleeful.  The  bright  sunshine  makes 
him  want  to  laugh  with  delight;  the  rustle  of  the 
leaves  incites  him  to  sing  for  mere  pleasure;  he 
watches  the  slanting  rain,  and  unconsciously  notes 
the  degree  of  its  obliquity ;  he  sees  the  heavy  drops 
of  a  shower  throwing  lively  little  jets  of  water  from 
the  shining  surface  of  a  miniature  lake,  and  he  is 
inclined  to  dance.  Only  the  pattering  on  the  foliage 
and  a  great  sense  of  overpowering  beauty  all  around 
him  in  all  these  scenes  keep  him  still.  He  will  lose 
nothing  of  it,  not  a  breath,  not  a  glimpse,  not  a 
sound.    He  absorbs  it  all. 

This  passionate  love  for  the  beauties  of  nature, 
this  worship  of  its  glories,  make  in  him  the  land- 
/  scape  painter,  tempt  him  to  give  his  readers  some- 
what too  much  of  description,  too  many  minutely- 
delineated  prospects ;  tempt  him  also  to  use  the  same 
graphic  expressions  too  often.  The  very  strength 
and  brilliancy  of  these  expressions  instantly  fix 
attention  on  them,  and  their  repetition  is  therefore 
the  more  noticeable.  Bubbles  are  " bells  of  air;" 
the  moon  is  a  "  yellow"  or  a  "  golden  sickle ;"  from 
windows  in  the  evening  "red"  or  "yellow  light" 
always  shines;  the  trees  cast  shadows  across  a  u yellow 
road ;"  the  sea  in  sunlight  is  "yellow"  or  "  golden  ;" 
a  "glare  of  yellow  fire"  very  often  "leaps  into  the 
day;"  a  "yellow  glare"  or  a  "yellow  glory"  too 
frequently  rests  on  sheets  of  water,  or  surrounds 


30 


JIOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


hotels  and  houses ;  a  "  white  glare"  not  rarely  lies 
on  the  highway;  the  scent  of  seaweed  is  not  unfre- 
quently  wafted  through  the  air,  and  is  always  a 
"cold  odor;"  the  smell  of  burning  peat  and  " resin- 
ous odors"  perfume  the  pages.  Sudden  changes  in 
the  aspect  of  the  heavens  are  "  strange  things"  that 
happen.  These  faults  of  iteration  are  the  result  of 
a  too  strenuous  effort  to  affect  the  reader  with  all  the 
intensity  of  the  writer's  impressions,  as  well  as  to 
picture  strongly  their  causes.  They  are  the  faults 
of  a  painter  who  uses  glaring  colors  somewhat  too 
lavishly ;  faults,  however,  which  it  would  be  hyper- 
critical to  notice  but  for  the  exquisite  style,  harmony, 
and  finish  of  his  works  considered  in  their  integrity. 

For  "The  Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton," 
indeed,  the  author's  plan  evidently  was  so  made  as  to 
give  him  opportunities  to  describe  almost  every  kind 
of  English  rural  scenes  in  summer,  as  they  appear 
at  morning,  noon,  and  night,  together  with  the  sun, 
the  moon,  the  seven  stars,  and  the  firmament  gen- 
erally, the  clouds  particularly,  some  portions  of  the 
sea,  some  Scottish  mountains,  vales,  and  glens,  rivu- 
lets and  lakes,  cascades  and  pools,  the  wind  and  the 
weather.  Therefore  lengthened  and  minute  delinea- 
tions of  all  these  things  in  their  different  phases 
cannot  be  censured  as  out  of  place,  particularly  as  the 
writer  took  care  not  to  make  the  story,  which  runs 
through  the  book,  exciting  enough  to  arouse  the 
reader's  impatience.  Yet  the  reader  must  go  through 
the  scenes  as  the  author  did,  in  a  sauntering  way, 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


31 


otherwise  lie  becomes  surfeited  with  views  of  land- 
scapes. 

But  in  "  A  Princess  of  Thule"  such  sketches  are 
often  interpolated  at  so  great  length  that  they  sensi- 
bly retard  the  action.  The  book  has  hardly  any 
other  fault,  and  is,  notwithstanding  this,  a  work  of 
rare  merit.  It  is  notably  fresh,  pure,  and  whole- 
some. The  story  is  uncommonly  interesting.  The 
reader's  attention  and  sympathies  are  absorbed  by  the 
play  of  the  original,  clearly  sketched,  and  admirably 
contrasted  characters.  He  does  not  like  to  have  his 
regard  drawn  away  by  a  loquacious  neighbor  who 
will  insist  on  pointing  out  to  him  all  the  beauties  of 
the  scenery.  He  is  more  interested  in  the  play  than 
in  the  decorations  of  the  stage.  Yet  the  author's 
descriptions  of  Borva,  Stornoway,  The  Lewis,  the 
mountains,  the  coasts,  the  inlets,  the  straits,  the  bays, 
the  sea,  are  so  graphic  and  present  so  much  magnifi- 
cent beauty  to  the  reader's  imagination  that  in  spite 
of  the  story's  fascinations  he  reads  them  all  and  con- 
ceives an  almost  irresistible  longing  to  visit  the 
northern  Hebrides,  to  sail  in  a  yacht  among  the 
islands,  to  watch  the  ever-varying  aspect  of  the 
waves,  the  sudden  changes  in  sky  and  light,  and  to 
give  himself  up  to  the  supreme  joy  of  conscious  ex- 
istence and  the  certainty  that  he  is,  through  every 
sense,  taking  into,  and  making  a  part  of  himself,  as 
it  were,  some  portions  of  all  this  beauty  and  glory. 
The  book  has  "  the  freshness  and  pleasant  odors  of 
innumerable  woods  and  fields,"  over  which  the  sweet 


32 


7/0  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


sea-breezes  are  blowing.  In  it  the  painter  recedes 
somewhat  and  the  poet  comes  forward.  The  author 
has  increased  his  scope  and  brought  more  phases  of 
his  power  into  action.  The  figures  are  skilfully 
grouped,  strongly  opposed.  The  outlines  are  flow- 
ing and  distinct.  The  sculptor  that  lies  within  the 
painter  had  something  to  do  with  the  work.  Here, 
as  in  his  other  books,  the  author  manifests  the  de- 
light which  he  feels  in  observing  and  pointing  out 
the  symptoms  of  love  slowly  coming  on.  He  has 
given  this,  his  own  peculiarity,  to  "Queen  Titania:" 

"  It  was  a  pretty  comedy  for  a  time,  and  my  lady  had 
derived  an  infinite  pleasure  and  amusement  from  watching 
the  small  and  scarcely  perceptible  degrees  by  which  the 
young  folks  got  drawn  toward  each  other." 

He  knows  no  love  except  that  which  is  wholesome 
and  has  a  certain  nobility;  he  seems  not  even  to  sus- 
pect that  any  other  kind  exists.  There  is  no  pulling 
and  hauling  among  his  lovers;  to  him  love  is  a 
sacred  thing,  and  he  veils  its  mysteries.  What  can 
be  purer,  more  delicate,  more  beautiful,  for  example, 
than  the  manner  in  which  the  reconciliation  between 
Sheila  and  her  husband  is  effected?  She  will  go  to 
Johnny's  yacht,  hoping  to  make  better  acquaintance 
with  the  party  on  board  : 

"  cAnd  we  shall  become  very  great  friends  with  them, 
papa,  and  they  will  be  glad  to  take  us  to  Jura,'  she  said 
with  a  smile,  for  she  knew  there  was  not  much  of  the  hos- 
pitality of  Borvabost  bestuwed  with  ulterior  motives." 


THESE  A  UTHORS. 


33 


She  has  heard  from  the  cautious  yachtsman  that 
Lavender,  the  young  husband  whom  she  had  felt 
compelled  so  sadly  to  abandon,  was  at  Jura.  She 
does  not  know  that  he  came  from  there  with  Johnny 
in  his  vessel.  So  they  push  off  and  go  aboard.  As 
they  are  about  to  descend  into  the  cabin  Mackenzie 
sees  Mosenberg,  and  at  once  suspects  the  truth. 

"  Mackenzie  was  getting  very  uneasy.  Every  moment 
he  expected  Lavender  would  enter  this  confined  little  cabin ; 
and  was  this  the  place  for  these  two  to  meet,  before  a  lot 
of  acquaintances? 

" '  Sheila,'  he  said,  1  it  is  too  close  for  you  here,  and  I 
am  going  to  have  a  pipe  with  the  gentlemen.  Now  if  you 
wass  a  good  lass  you  would  go  ashore  again,  and  go  up  to 
the  house,  and  say  to  Mairi  that  we  will  all  come  for  lunch- 
eon at  one  o'clock,  and  she  must  get  some  fish  up  from 
Borvabost.  Mr.  Eyre,  he  will  send  a  man  ashore  with 
you  in  his  own  boat,  that  is  bigger  than  mine,  and  you  will 
show  him  the  creek  to  put  into.  Now  go  away,  like  a  good 
lass,  and  we  will  be  up  ferry  soon — oh,  yes,  we  will  be  up 
directly  at  the  house.'" 

Sheila  "  wass  a  good  lass"  and  she  went  ashore. 
But  the  affectionate  old  King  of  Borva  was  a  little 
out  of  his  reckoning.  Lavender,  unable  to  bear  the 
suspense  of  waiting  on  the  yacht,  unable  also  to 
restrain  his  impatience  to  look  once  more  at  his  wife, 
though  from  a  distance,  had  gone  ashore. 

"Sheila  walked  slowly  up  the  rude  little  path,  taking 
little  heed  of  the  blustering  wind  and  the  hurrying  clouds. 
Her  eyes  were  bent  down,  her  face  was  very  pale.  When 

4 


34 


JIOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


she  got  to  the  top  of  the  hill  she  looked,  in  a  blank  sort  of 
way,  all  around  the  bleak  moorland,  but  probably  she  did 
not  expect  to  see  any  one  there.  Then  she  walked,  with 
rather  an  uncertain  step,  into  the  house.  She  looked  into 
the  room,  the  door  of  which  stood  open.  Her  husband 
sat  there,  with  his  arms  outstretched  on  the  table  and  his 
head  buried  in  his  hands.  He  did  not  hear  her  approach, 
her  footfall  was  so  light,  and  it  was  with  the  same  silent 
step  she  went  into  the  room  and  knelt  down  beside  him  and 
put  her  hands  and  face  on  his  knee  and  said,  simply, '  I  beg 
for  your  forgiveness.' 

"  He  started  up  and  looked  at  her  as  though  she  were 
some  spirit,  and  his  own  face  was  haggard  and  strange. 
'  Sheila/  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  laying  his  hand  gently  on 
her  head,  '  it  is  I  who  ought  to  be  there,  and  you  know  it. 
But  I  cannot  meet  your  eyes.  I  am  not  going  to  ask  for 
your  forgiveness  just  yet.    I  have  no  right  to  expect  it.'  " 

Such  is  the  tone  of  the  whole  scene,  which  is  too 
long  to  be  quoted  here. 

Just  at  this  time  Sheila's  big-hearted  father  ap- 
pears in  one  of  his  roundest  and  fullest  phases. 

••  Meanwhile  the  old  King  of  Borva  had  been  spending 
a  somewhat  anxious  time  down  in  the  cabin  of  the  Phcebe. 
Many  and  many  a  day  had  he  been  planning  a  method  by 
which  he  might  secure  a  meeting  between  Sheila  and  her 
husband,  and  now  it  had  all  come  about  without  his  aid  and 
in  a  manner  which  rendered  him  unable  to  take  any  pre- 
cautions. He  did  not  know  but  that  some  awkward  acci- 
dent might  destroy  all  the  chances  of  the  affair.  He  knew 
that  Lavender  was  on  the  island.  He  had  frankly  asked 
young  Mosenberg  as  soon  as  Sheila  had  left  the  yacht. 


THESE  A  I'TTIORS. 


35 


.  w  '  Oh,  yes,'  the  lad  said,  1  he  went  away  into  the  island 
early  this  morning.  I  begged  of  hiin  to  go  to  your  house; 
he  did  not  answer.  But  I  am  sure  I13  will.  I  know  he 
will.' 

"  { My  Kott !'  Mackenzie  said,  '  and  he  has  been  wander- 
ing about  the  island  all  the  morning,  and  he  will  be  very 
faint  and  hungry,  and  a  man  is  nefFer  in  a  good  temper  then 
for  making  up  a  quarrel.  If  I  had  known  the  last  night,- 1 
could  hef  had  dinner  with  you  all  here,  and  we  should  hef 
given  him  a  good  glass  of  whiskey,  and  then  it  wass  a  good 
time  to  tek  him  up  to  the  house.' 

"  '  Oh,  you  may  depend  on  it,  Mr.  Mackenzie,'  Johnny 
Eyre  said,  '  that  Lavender  needs  no  stimulus  of  that  sort  to 
make  him  desire  a  reconciliation.  No,  I  should  think  not. 
He  has  done  nothing  but  brood  over  this  affair  since  ever 
he  left  London ;  and  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  you  scarcely 
knew  him,  he  is  so  altered.  You  would  fancy  he  had  lived 
ten  years  in  that  time.' 

"  'Ay,  ay,'  Mackenzie  said,  not  listening  very  attentively, 
and  evidently  thinking  more  of  what  might  be  happening 
elsewhere  ;  '  but  I  was  thinking,  gentlemen,  it  wass  time  for 
us  to  go  ashore  and  go  up  to  the  house,  and  hef  something 
to  eat.' 

"  '  I  thought  you  said  one  o'clock  for  luncheon,  sir,'  young 
Mosenberg  said. 

" 'One  o'clock  !'  Mackenzie  repeated  impatiently;  'who 
the  teffle  can  wait  till  one  o'clock  if  you  hef  been  walking 
about  an  island  since  daylight  with  nothing  to  eat  or 
drink?' 

"  Mr.  Mackenzie  forgot  that  it  was  not  Lavender  he  had 
asked  to  lunch. 

"  '  Oh,  yes,'  he  said,  '  Sheila  hass  had  plenty  of  time  to 


3G 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


send  down  to  Borvabost  for  some  fish  ;  and  by  the  time  you 
get  up  to  the  house  you  will  see  that  it  is  ready.' 

"  '  Very  well,'  Johnny  said,  '  we  can  go  up  to  the  house, 
any  way.' 

"  He  went  up  the  companion,  and  he  had  scarcely  got  his 
head  above  the  level  of  the  bulwarks  when  he  called  back, — 

"  '  I  say,  Mr.  Mackenzie,  here  is  Lavender  on  shore  and 
your  daughter  is  with  him.  Do  they  want  to  come  on 
board,  do  you  think  ?    Or  do  they  want  us  to  go  ashore?' 

"  Mackenzie  uttered  a  few  phrases  in  Gaelic,  and  got  up 
on  deck  instantly.  There,  sure  enough,  was  Sheila  with 
her  hand  on  her  husband's  arm,  and  they  were  both  look- 
ing toward  the  yacht.  The  wind  was  blowing  too  strong 
for  them  to  call.  Mackenzie  wanted  himself  to  pull  in  for 
them,  but  this  was  overruled,  and  Pate  was  despatched. 

"An  awkward  pause  ensued.  The  three  standing  on 
deck  were  sorely  perplexed  as  to  the  forthcoming  inter- 
view, and  as  to  what  they  should  do.  Were  they  to  re- 
joice over  a  reconciliation,  or  ignore  the  fact  altogether,  and 
simply  treat  Sheila  as  Mrs.  Lavender?  Her  father,  indeed, 
fearing  that  Sheila  would  be  strangely  excited,  and  would 
probably  burst  into  tears,  wondered  what  he  could  get  to 
scold  about." 

And  so  all  the  indirections  of  the  dear  old  man's 
simple  diplomacy  had  accomplished  nothing.  "What 
he  wanted  so  much  to  effect  had  been  brought  about 
by  accident,  so  far  as  he  could  see.  But  he  was  not 
the  less  happy  for  that. 

If  we  carefully  regard  the  personages,  they  appear 
to  live.  Indeed,  their  apparent  reality  attracts  our 
critical  and  admiring  regard.    They  are  the  work  of 


THESE  AUTHORS, 


37 


the  poet,  the  maker,  who  has  created  them  all  in 
some  phase  of  his  own  image.  We  want  to  go  to 
Borva  and  see  the  old  King,  grandly  simple,  not- 
withstanding his  diplomatic  purposes  and  ways,  open, 
rugged,  sturdy,  firm  almost  as  his  own  island.  We 
feel  a  strange  inclination  to  kneel  to  Sheila  as  to  a 
kind  of  Madonna,  who  speaks  English  with  the 
sweetest  quaintness  of  style  and  pronunciation.  We 
should  certainly  greet  them  and  all  their  people  with 
the  warmth  of  cordial  affection,  according  to  their 
degree.  We  should  want  to  meet  there  also  Laven- 
der, who  commits  so  many  sins  of  inconsideration, 
but  is  a  good  fellow  after  all ;  and  Ingram,  who 
knows  the  cost  of  unselfishness,  but  practises  it  all 
the  same.  We  should  be  too  happy  and  charitable 
to  wish  the  eccentric  old  aunt,  Mrs.  Lavender,  that 
terrible  satire  on  a  certain  class,  to  be  there.  We 
should  rather  see  her  at  her  house  in  London.  But 
Mrs.  Lorraine  and  her  mother  might  come,  and  of 
course  the  young  musician  Mosenberg  and  Johnny 
Eyre,  and  all  the  lesser  people. 

Almost  without  exception  the  author's  style  is  pure 
and  simple ;  his  diction  elegant  and  strong.  If  the 
feeling  of  a  poet  is  in  him,  so  is  that  of  the  musician 
also. 

In  Mosenberg,  with  his  unconscious  revelations 
of  genius,  the  writer  has  evidently  made  himself  a 
boy  again. 

"  1  Do  you  think,  madame,  any  fine  songs  like  that,  or 
any  fine  words  that  go  to  the  heart  of  people,  are  written 

4* 


38 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


about  any  one  person  ?  Oh,  no !  The  man  has  a  great 
desire  in  him  to  say  something  beautiful  or  sad,  and  he 
says  it,  not  to  one  person,  but  to  all  the  world ;  and  all  the 
world  takes  it  from  him  as  a  gift.  Sometimes,  yes,  he  will 
think  of  one  woman,  or  he  will  dedicate  the  music  to  her, 
or  he  will  compose  it  for  her  wedding,  but  the  feeling  in 
his  heart  is  greater  than  any  that  he  has  for  her.  Can  you 
believe,  madame,  that  Mendelssohn  wrote  the  Hochzeitm — 
the  Wedding  March — for  any  one  wedding?  No.  It  was 
all  the  marriage  joy  of  all  the  world  he  put  into  his  music, 
and  every  one  knows  that.  And  you  hear  it  at  this  wed- 
ding, at  that  wedding,  but  you  know  it  belongs  to  something 
far  away,  and  more  beautiful  than  the  marriage  of  any  one 
bride  with  her  sweetheart.  And  if  you  will  pardon  me, 
madame,  for  speaking  about  myself,  it  is  about  some  one  I 
never  knew,  who  is  far  more  beautiful  and  precious  to  me 
than  any  one  I  ever  knew,  that  I  try  to  think  when  I  sing 
these  sad  songs,  and  then  I  think  of  her  far  away,  and  not 
likely  ever  to  see  me  again.' 

"  '  But  some  day  you  will  find  that  you  have  met  her  in 
real  life,'  Sheila  said,  '  and  you  will  find  her  far  more  beau- 
tiful and  kind  to  you  than  anything  you  dreamed  about ; 
and  you  will  try  to  write  your  best  music  to  give  to  her. 
And  then,  if  you  should  be  unhappy,  you  will  find  how 
much  worse  is  the  real  unhappiness  about  one  you  love  than 
the  sentiment  of  a  song  you  can  lay  aside  at  any  moment.'  " 


THESE  A  UTHORS. 


39 


A  CHARMING  STORY-TELLER. 

In  the  winter  of  1852-3  Mr.  William  Makepeace 
Thackeray  first  visited  Washington.  While  there 
he  was  entertained  one  Sunday  evening  by  an  emi- 
nent political  editor,  afterward  a  foreign  minister, 
whose  house  was  the  favorite  Sunday  evening  resort 
of  statesmen  and  politicians,  and  whose  wife  was 
noted  for  brilliant  intellectual  qualities.  A  few 
ladies,  intimate  friends  of  the  hostess,  generally 
assisted  her  at  these  informal  receptions.  On  this 
particular  evening,  Mr.  Thackeray  had  plainly  been 
wearied  by  many  formal  presentations  and  much 
formal  talk,  and  at  length  retired  to  a  corner  of  the 
room  where  he  could  observe  the  company  and  all 
that  passed.  The  hostess  sat  near  him,  a  member  of 
Congress  from  Massachusetts,  more  celebrated  for 
his  wit  and  conversational  powers  than  for  any  other 
quality,  was  opposite,  and  with  a  collegian,  who  was 
the  fourth  of  the  little  party,  helped  somewhat  to 
isolate  the  distinguished  visitor.  While  engaged  in 
a  contest  of  pleasantry  and  repartee  with  the  Con- 
gressional wit,  Thackeray  was  particularly  struck  by 
the  beauty,  grace,  and  cleverness  of  a  young  lady 
just  out  of  a  convent,  where  she  had  been  educated, 


40  HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


then  enjoying  her  first  winter  in  society,  who,  seated 
near  the  middle  of  the  parlor,  was  surrounded  by  a 
group  of  men,  all  more  or  less  distinguished,  whom 
she  entertained  with  a  degree  of  artless  ease  and 
vivacity  truly  charming.  The  great  satirist  could 
hardly  keep  his  eyes  off  her.  Several  times,  by 
some  movement  or  remark,  he  had  called  the  atten- 
tion of  those  near  him  to  the  youthful  belle,  and  at 
length,  with  visible  warmth  and  tenderness,  he  ex- 
claimed, "  She  reminds  me  of  my  girl ;  and  she  is 
the  best  fellow !" 

Any  appreciative  reader  of  Miss  Thackeray's 
works  cannot  fail  to  understand  and  in  a  manner 
respond  to  her  father's  admiration  and  tender  affec- 
tion for  his  daughter.  Plainly  they  were  enough 
alike  for  the  closest  sympathy,  sufficiently  unlike  for 
mutual  admiration.  Profound  and  prolonged  reflec- 
tion is  characteristic  of  both.  By  it  the  manly  and 
aggressive  father  is  led  to  a  clear  perception  of  the 
shams  and  hypocrisies  of  social  life,  and  wrought 
thereby  to  a  degree  of  indignation  that  must  find 
vent,  but  which  with  masterly  self-control  he  ex- 
presses in  scathing  irony;  while  in  the  gentle  and 
womanly  daughter  the  same  reflection  enlarges  and 
quickens  her  tender  sympathies  with  what  is  true 
and  honest,  and  brings  her  to  the  discovery  of  many 
hidden  amiable  qualities  and  evanescent  graces. 
They  are  in  some  measure  counterparts  of  each 
other.  Both  feel  the  same  love  for  what  is  virtuous 
and  noble ;  but  in  one  this  love  excites  the  most 


these  a  unions. 


41 


unrelenting  animosity  against  vice  and  meanness, 
and  impels  him  to  attack  them  under  all  disguises 
and  in  all  positions  with  crushing  sarcasms ;  by  it 
the  other  is  led  to  nourish  and  cheer,  to  caress  and 
magnify  these  objects  of  her  affectionate  veneration. 
Both  are  moved  by  the  same  tenderness  and  pity, 
not  infrequently,  however,  in  opposite  directions — 
the  father  to  assail  and  implacably  pursue  the  active 
cause  of  wrong  and  endurance,  the  daughter  to 
shelter  the  wronged  and  suffering  by  spreading 
about  them  wings  of  charity  like  a  protecting  angel. 
The  father  loves  truth  and  sincerity,  and  therefore 
hates  falsehood  and  sham ;  but  the  hatred  is  often 
the  more  active  of  the  two  passions,  from  its  very 
nature  and  from  the  nature  of  the  man.  The 
daughter  loves  truth  and  goodness  and  beauty  so 
fervently  that  she  is  content  as  much  as  possible  to 
forget  that  there  are  such  things  as  vice  and  roguery 
in  the  world.  She  does  not  belong  to  the  aggressive 
sex;  it  is  not  in  her  nature  to  assail;  with  the  in- 
stincts of  a  woman  she  delights  to  foster,  to  develop, 
to  refine,  to  beautify. 

The  most  pervading  impression  left  by  a  reading 
of  Miss  Thackeray's  works  is  of  an  atmosphere 
singularly  pure,  sunny,  and  tranquil.  You  feel  well 
assured  that  she  is  a  painter ;  you  know  that  she  can 
make  pictures.  In  the  world  which  she  presents  to 
you  are  sunlit  fields,  and  shady  vales,  and  verdant 
knolls,  and  glimpses  of  streamlets,  and  the  shimmer 
of  lakes,  and  the  sea  toward  which  the  landscape 


42 


HOW  THEY  ST  HIKE  ME, 


slopes.  The  scene  is  full  of  harmonies;  you  see 
that  the  air  is  resonant  ;  you  almost,  hear  the  sub- 
bass  of  the  surge;  a  feeling  akin  to  religion  fills, 
enlarges,  ennobles  you;  and  you  are  quite  certain 
that  but  for  the  written  revelation  you  must,  if  you 
lived  then,  do  as  her  heroine  does  unconsciously, 
involuntarily  be  a  pagan  and  worship  the  elements. 

"  What  is  this  strange  voice  of  nature  that  says  with  one 
utterance  so  many  unlike  things  ?  Is  it  that  we  only  hear 
the  voice  of  our  own  hearts  in  the  sound  of  the  waves,  in 
the  sad  cries  of  birds  as  they  fly,  of  animals,  the  shivering 
of  trees,  the  creaking  and  starting  of  the  daily  familiar 
things  all  about  their  homes  ?  This  echo  of  the  sea,  which 
to  some  was  a  complaint  and  a  reproach,  was  to  Reine 
Chretien  like  the  voice  of  a  friend  and  teacher — of  a  re- 
ligion, almost.  To  her,  when  she  looked  at  the  gleaming 
immensity,  it  was  almost  actually  and  in  truth  to  her  the 
great  sea,  upon  the  shores  of  which  we  say  we  are  as 
children  playing  with  the  pebbles.  It  was  her  formula. 
Her  prayers  went  out  unconsciously  toward  the  horizon, 
as  some  pray  looking  toward  heaven,  in  the  words  which 
their  fathers  have  used." 

This  author  has  the  power  of  delicately  graduated 
and  harmonious  contrasts.  In  the  lives  that  she 
describes,  as  in  the  landscapes  which  she  portrays, 
clouds  more  or  less  dark  temporarily  obscure  the 
sun,  and  make  the  differences  of  light  and  shade. 
Inclement  weather,  a  gloomy  drizzle,  or  a  cheerless 
fog  give  added  brilliancy,  intensity,  and  consolation 
to  the  light,  the  warmth,  and  the  comforts  of  home. 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


43 


She  knows  what  sadness  and  sorrow  are,  and  she 
knows  how  to  make  the  joy  that  is  often  hidden 
within  them  gradually  shine  forth.  Her  work  has 
flowing  but  clearly-defined  outlines.  The  parts  and 
the  colors  glide  imperceptibly  into  each  other.  No 
incongruous  juxtapositions  shock  us,  no  violent 
transitions  occur.  It  is  like  a  finely-woven  web,  in 
which  all  the  threads  are  even,  all  the  tints  perfect, 
and  every  fibre  in  its  place.  The  moral  groundwork 
of  the  texture,  however,  is  sometimes  unduly  en- 
larged ;  the  scenes  are  thereby  separated  by  distances 
too  wide;  the  action  is  not  clearly  enough  inter- 
twined, and  may  be  temporarily  lost  to  view  by  the 
reader  who  conscientiously  omits  nothing.  In  these 
wide  patches  of  morality,  where,  indeed,  a  very 
humane  philosophy  is  cultivated,  but  in  which  the 
interest  is  of  a  kind  entirely  different  from  that  en- 
listed by  the  story,  lies  Miss  Thackeray's  chief  and 
almost  only  defect  of  noticeable  importance  as  a 
novelist,  save  one,  which  will  be  considered  farther 
on.  The  tone  of  these  parts  of  her  works  is,  to  be 
sure,  in  perfect  harmony  with  that  of  the  particular 
story  which  illustrates  them ;  but  they  suggest  illus- 
tration and  application,  which  is  itself  an  offence 
against  art,  though  meritorious  in  a  sermon,  and 
more  or  less  deform  the  symmetry  of  creations 
which,  but  for  them,  would  be  just  and  comely. 
She  cannot  free  herself  entirely  from  the  principles 
of  the  English  modern  school  of  novelists ;  one  of 
the  chief  aims  of  which  is  to  be  practical  and  useful. 


44 


110  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


The  utility  of  art  seems  to  be  the  subject  of  an 
English  artist's  reflection ;  to  apply  it  directly  to 
some  demonstrably  beneficial  end  the  object  of  his 
labors.  Above  all  he  would  do  something  to 
strengthen  the  British  constitution,  to  make  the 
British  social  fabric  more  solid,  to  increase  the  com- 
forts of  the  British  people,  to  add  something  to  the 
glory  of  the  British  name.  Miss  Thackeray  has,  iu 
some  measure,  emancipated  herself  from  the  thral- 
dom of  this  national  utilitarian  feeling.  In  senti- 
ment she  is  cosmopolitan  while  cherishing  a  tender 
affection  for  her  British  home.  But  the  influence  of 
English  literature  and  of  its  modern  school  is  man- 
ifest in  her  works.  Apparently  possessing  all  the 
qualities  necessary  to  a  complete  novelist,  she  yet 
permits  them  to  be  displaced  alid  to  some  extent 
neutralized  by  the  reflections  of  an  amiable  moralist. 
Her  benevolence  compels  her  to  instruct,  her  sweet 
charity  to  tell  you  more  or  less  directly  how,  by  the 
use  of  a  wider  consideration,  you  may  be  more  just, 
how  you  may  do  greater  good  and  less  evil  by  exer- 
cising more  thought  for  those  who  are  near  you,  by 
being  less  selfish,  less  absorbed  in  yourself  and  your 
own  interests,  by  entering  more  fully  into  the  lives 
of  others  through  sympathy ;  how,  in  short,  you 
may  make  others  better  and  happier  by  being  your- 
self greater  and  better.  This  partakes  of  the  nature 
of  an  argument.  It  addresses  itself  not  to  imagina- 
tion and  taste,  but  to  reason  and  conviction.  The 
propositions  are  insinuated  one  after  another,  so  that 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


45 


you  are  not  alarmed  by  the  preliminaries  of  an  essay 
or  the  sudden  definitions  of  premises  for  a  logical 
demonstration.  But  the  premises  are  there,  the 
proofs  are  supplied  by  the  personages,  the  argument 
strengthened  by  appeals  more  or  less  straightfor- 
ward, and  the  conclusion  is  enforced  by  the  catas- 
trophe. To  sustain  the  proofs  and  the  argument 
analysis  follows  analysis,  descriptions  of  character 
are  prolonged  and  multiplied.  An  occasional  excess 
of  analysis  and  description  is  the  other  noticeable 
defect  in  Miss  Thackeray's  work  to  which  allusion 
was  made  above.  This  excess  is  greater  in  her 
earlier  than  in  her  later  works.  In  "  Old  Kensing- 
ton" it  reaches  the  extreme.  That  alone  of  her 
stories  seems  to  have  been  written  to  order — an  order 
requiring  so  many  pages  for  so  much  money.  But, 
aside  from  any  other  temptation  to  exaggeration  in 
this  respect,  she  is  led  into  it  by  her  love  for  the 
picturesque  and  her  minute  observation  of  it.  No 
detail  escapes  her : 

"  Five  o'clock  on  a  fine  Sunday, — western  light  stream- 
ing along  the  shore,  low  cliffs  stretching  away  on  either 
side,  with  tufted  grasses  and  thin,  straggling  flowers  grow- 
ing from  the  loose,  arid  soil, — far-away  promontories,  flash- 
ing amid  distant  shores,  which  the  tides  have  not  yet 
overlapped,  all  shining  in  the  sun.  The  waves  swell 
steadily  inward,  the  foam  sparkles  when  the  ripples  meet 
the  sands. 

"  The  horizon  is  solemn  dark  blue,  but  a  great  streak  of 
light  crosses  the  sea,  the  white  sails  gleam,  so  do  the  white 

5 


46 


IIO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


caps  of  the  peasant  women,  and  the  wings  of  the  seagulls  as 
they  go  swimming  through  the  air. 

"  Holiday  people  are  out  in  their  Sunday  clothes.  They 
go  strolling  along  the  shore,  or  bathing  and  screaming  to 
each  other  in  the  waters.  The  countrymen  wear  their 
blue  smocks  of  a  darker  blue  than  the  sea,  and  they  walk 
by  their  wives  and  sweethearts  in  their  gay-colored  Sunday 
petticoats.  A  priest  goes  by  ;  a  grand  lady  in  frills,  yellow 
shoes,  red  jacket,  flyaway  hat,  and  a  cane.  Her  husband  is 
also  in  scarlet  and  yellow.  Then  some  more  women  and 
Normandy  caps  flapping,  gossipping  together,  and  baskets 
and  babies,  and  huge  umbrellas.  A  figure,  harlequin-like, 
all  stripes  and  long  legs,  suddenly  darts  from  behind  a  rock 
and  frisks  into  the  water,  followed  by  a  dog  barking 
furiously.  More  priests  go  by  from  the  seminary  at  As- 
nelles.  Then  perhaps  a  Sister  of  Charity,  with  her  large 
flat  shoes,  accompanied  by  two  grand-looking  bonnets. 

"  The  little  Englishman  was  sauntering  in  his  odd,  loose 
clothes  ;  Monsieur  Fontaine,  the  maire,  tripping  beside  him 
with  short,  quick,  military  steps,  neat  gaiters,  a  cane,  thread 
gloves,  and  a  curly-rimmed  Panama  hat.  M.  Fontaine  was 
the  taller  of  the  two,  but  the  Englishman  seemed  to  keep 
ahead  somehow,  although  he  only  sauntered,  and  dragged 
one  leg  lazily  after  the  other.  Pelottier,  the  innkeeper, 
had  been  parading  up  and  down  all  the  afternoon  with  his 
rich  and  hideous  bride.  She  went  mincing  along,  with  a 
parasol,  and  mittens,  and  gold  earrings,  and  a  great  gold 
ring  on  her  forefinger,  and  a  Paris  cap,  stuck  over  with 
pins  and  orange-flowers.  She  looked  daggers  at  Reine 
Chretien,  who  had  scorned  Pelottier,  and  boxed  his  great 
red  ears,  it  was  said,  earrings  and  all.  As  for  Reine,  she 
marched  past  the  couple  in  her  Normandy  peasant  dress. 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


47 


with  its  beautiful  old  laces  and  gold  ornaments,  looking 
straight  before  her,  as  she  took  the  arm  of  her  grandfather, 
the  old  farmer  from  Tracy. 

"  Besides  all  these  grown-up  people  there  comes  occa- 
sionally a  little  flying  squadron  of  boys  and  girls,  rushing 
along,  tumbling  down,  shouting  and  screaming  at  the  pitch 
of  their  voices,  to  the  scandal  of  the  other  children  who  are 
better  brought  up,  and  who  are  soberly  trotting  in  their 
small  bourcelots,  and  bibs  and  blouses,  by  the  side  of  their 
fathers  and  mothers.  The  babies  are  the  solemnest  and  the 
funniest  of  all,  as  they  stare  at  the  sea  and  the  company 
from  their  tight  maillots  or  cocoons. 

"  The  country  folks  meet,  greet  one  another  cheerfully, 
and  part  with  signs  and  jokes ;  the  bathers  go  on  shouting 
and  beating  the  water ;  the  lights  dance.  In  the  distance, 
across  the  sands,  you  see  the  figures  walking  leisurely 
homeward  before  the  tide  overtakes  them ;  the  sky  gleams 
whiter  and  whiter  at  the  horizon,  and  bluer  and  more  blue 
behind  the  arid  grasses  that  fringe  the  overhanging  edge 
of  the  cliffs. 

"  Four  or  five  little  boys  come  running  up,  one  by  one, 
handkerchief-flying  umbrella-bearer  ahead,  to  the  martial 
sound  of  a  penny  trumpet.  The  little  captain  pursues 
them,  breathless  and  exhausted,  brandishing  his  sword  in 
an  agony  of  command.  '  Soldats,'  he  says,  addressing  his 
refractory  troops ;  '  soldats,  souvenez-vous  qu'il  ne  faut 
jamais  courrir.  Soldats,  ne  courrez  pas,  je  vous  en  prrrrie, 
— une,  deux,  trois,'  and  away  they  march  to  the  relief  of  a 
sand  fort  which  is  being  attacked  by  the  sea. 

"And  so  the  day  goes  on,  and  the  children  play,  and 
while  they  build  '  their  castles  of  dissolving  sand  to  watch 
them  overflow,'  the  air,  and  the  sounds,  and  the  colors  in 


48 


J 10  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


which  all  these  people  are  moving,  seem  to  grow  clearer 
and  clearer ;  you  can  see  the  country  people  clambering  the 
cliffs  behind  the  village,  and  hear  the  voices  and  the 
laughter  of  the  groups  assembled  on  the  embanked  market- 
place. And  meanwhile  M.  le  Maire  and  the  Englishman 
are  walking  slowly  along  the  sands  toward  Tracy,  with  long, 
grotesque  shadows  lengthening  as  the  sun  begins  to  set." 

This  is  very  graphic;  it  is  also  very  thorough. 
Possibly  the  thoroughness  of  the  description  im- 
presses you  even  more  than  its  vivacity.  You  are 
struck  by  the  conscientious  exactitude  with  which 
every  particular  of  the  scene  is  noted  and  clearly  set 
forth.  While  considering  it  you  forget  that  this  is 
but  a  space,  and  a  small  space,  in  the  background  of 
a  picture  which  you  came  to  see.  Somehow  it  re- 
minds you  of  what  has  been  said  about  the  English 
and  their  paintings  to  the  disparagement  of  both : 
"  They  pride  themselves  on  their  painting ;  at  least 
they  study  it  with  surprising  minuteness,  in  the 
Chinese  fashion ;  they  can  paint  a  bottle  of  hay  so 
exactly  that  a  botanist  will  tell  the  species  of  every 
stalk  ;  one  artist  lived  three  months  under  canvas  on 
a  heath,  so  that  he  might  thoroughly  know  heath." 

To  many  readers  such  description,  if  kept  within 
bounds,  is  very  pleasing ;  but  too  much  of  it  becomes 
monotonous  and  wearisome.  Beyond  the  measure 
necessary  for  repose  and  contrast,  it  delays  the  action 
of  the  story,  distracts  and  diminishes  the  reader's 
attention,  may  excite  his  impatience,  and,  possibly, 
his  disgust.    In  the  background  of  a  picture  made 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


49 


especially  to  represent  living  beings  and  evident 
action,  we  look  for  a  general  effect,  not  for  exact 
copying  of  nature,  the  precise  portrayal  of  every 
weed  and  blade  of  grass,  and  flower,  and  tree,  and 
stone,  and  sand-bank,  as  if  each  had  been  carefully 
counted  and  measured  and  placed  in  position  accord- 
ing to  a  mathematical  survey,  and  the  very  shade  of 
its  color  mixed  on  the  palette  by  actual  comparison. 
And  yet  the  painted  has  a  great  advantage  over  the 
printed  picture.  All  its  parts  may  be  viewed  at 
least  casually  with  one  glance,  while  in  the  written 
description  the  field  of  vision  is  traversed  by  one 
minute  portion  after  another,  like  a  miniature  pano- 
rama. To  grasp  all  and  see  it  as  the  writer  wished, 
you  must  strain  attention  and  memory  alike,  and 
while  this  strain  continues  you  must  call  in  fancy  to 
light  and  color  and  vivify  the  whole.  The  more 
prolonged  and  the  more  minute  the  description  the 
greater  and  more  complicated  the  task  imposed  upon 
the  reader.  In  most  cases  the  effect  on  his  mind  is 
that  of  a  jumble  of  not  very  intelligible  sentences. 
The  best  of  all  pictures  which  a  writer  can  present 
are  those  suggested  in  a  word  or  described  in  a 
phrase. 

In  some  of  Miss  Thackeray's  books,  as,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  one  already  mentioned,  these  errors  are 
fundamental ;  they  distort  the  whole  plan.  Others 
are  simple  and  pure  works  of  art,  in  which  the 
reader  hardly  knows  what  most  to  admire, — the 
absolutely  clean  and  wholesome  tone,  the  delicacy, 


50  HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 

variety,  and  harmony  of  tints,  the  symmetrical  pro- 
portions, or  the  gentle,  loving,  beneficent  nature 
everywhere  manifest  in  the  creation.  For  examples 
look  at  the  five  short  tales  grouped  under  the  one 
title,  "  Five  Old  Friends,"  especially  "  Cinderella," 
and  the  longer  story,  "  From  an  Island."  All  that 
she  docs,  whether  fairly  included  within  the  limits 
of  a  symmetrical  form  or  not,  bears  marks  of  a 
firm,  strong,  but  very  delicate  artistic  hand.  The 
sensibility,  nice  perception,  and  refinement  every- 
where present  might  easily  cause  her  strength  to  be 
undervalued.  Her  powers  act  as  gently  and  har- 
moniously as  do  the  forces  of  nature,  without  their 
tempests  and  convulsions.  She  has  the  germs  of 
many  characters;  has  that  kind  of  genius  which  seeks 
various  manifestations.  But  within  all  the  scope  of 
her  understanding  there  is  no  place  where  positive 
vice  may  be  conceived  or  where  an  ideal  villain  can 
be  harbored.  You  would  infer  from  reading  her 
books  that  she  was  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  vice 
and  villainy  can  exist  as  active  forces  in  society. 
She  makes  no  use  of  them  to  produce  contrasts,  to 
effect  a  catastrophe,  or  in  any  way.  The  foibles  and 
ordinary  characteristics  in  reputable  men  and  women 
furnish  her  all  needful  divergencies  and  motives. 
In  "  Out  of  the  World"  observe  the  contrast  between 
Dr.  Rich  and  his  wife,  and  how  easily  and  naturally 
the  catastrophe  is  brought  about  through  her  selfish- 
ness. Miss  Thackeray  deals  with  manhood  and 
womanhood,  not  with  titles  and  wealth  and  vulgar- 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


51 


ity.  For  a  hero  she  infinitely  prefers  a  painter  to  a 
prince,  and  a  sweet,  modest,  refined,  misplaced  gov- 
erness is  vastly  more  interesting  in  her  eyes  than  is  a 
flaunting  great  lady.  In  her  esteem  talent  worthily 
used  is  a  patent  of  nobility,  and  genius  in  paths  of 
rectitude  a  king.  These  constitute  the  aristocracy  of 
her  world ;  in  their  society  she  feels  herself  honored 
and  content.  She  has  no  railing  word,  no  sarcasm, 
for  those  who  may  differ  from  her.  You  cannot 
well  conceive  her  at  enmity  with  any  one,  or  hating 
anything,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word ;  much 
less  can  you  imagine  her  descending  from  the  pure, 
calm,  and  sunny  atmosphere  in  which  she  moves  to 
engage  in  a  hand-to-hand  contest  with  the  folly,  the 
vanity,  and  the  wickedness  that  make  the  activity 
on  a  lower  plane  of  life;  but  you  may  readily  picture 
her  to  your  imagination  mourning  over  unhappiness 
and  wrong-doing  wherever  found. 

These  characteristics  manifest  her  disposition,  not 
her  want  of  vision.  She  would  rather  lift  up  than 
throw  down  a  fellow-creature ;  would  rather  draw 
than  drive  him  aright ;  believes  gentleness  and  love 
to  be  the  most  powerful  agents  for  correction.  She 
has  Hans  Christian  Andersen's  sympathy  for  souls 
out  of  place,  imprisoned,  borne  down;  would  lead 
them  out  of  their  confinement  into  the  pure  ether, 
where  they  may  freely  breathe  and  fully  expand : 

"  Catherine  was  oppressed  by  circumstance,  and  somewhat 
morbid  by  nature,  as  people  are  without  the  power  of  expan- 


52 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


sion.  She  had  lived  with  dull  people  all  her  life,  and  had 
never  learnt  to  talk  or  to  think.  Her  stepmother  was  a 
tender-hearted  and  sweet-natured  sad  woman,  who  was 
accustomed  to  only  see  the  outside  of  things.  Mrs.  George 
had  two  dozen  little  sentences  in  her  repertory,  which  she 
must  have  said  over  many  thousand  times  in  the  course  of 
her  life,  and  which  Catherine  had  been  accustomed  hitherto 
to  repeat  after  her,  and  to  think  of  as  enough  for  all  the 
exigencies  and  philosophy  of  life.  But  now  everything 
was  changing,  and  she  was  beginning  to  idea  thoughts  for 
herself,  and  to  want  words  to  put  them  into ;  and  with  the 
thoughts  and  the  words,  alas !  came  the  longing  for  some 
one  to  listen  to  her  strange,  new  discoveries,  and  to  tell  her 
what  they  meant." 

Cecilia,  in  the  "Sleeping  Beauty  in  the  Wood/' 
Ella,  in  "  Cinderella/'  and  to  some  extent  Elizabeth, 
in  the  "Story  of  Elizabeth/'  suffer  and  are  enlarged 
from  similar  imprisonment,  to  say  nothing  of  others. 
Miss  Thackeray's  knowledge  of  human  nature  is 
wide  and  subtle.  She  discriminates  shades  of  char- 
acter with  the  nicest  perception ;  uses  as  effective 
counterpoises  differences  that  would  escape  a  less 
delicate  sense,  or  disappear  under  a  less  delicate 
handling.  She  has  brought  forward  many  person- 
ages; almost  without  exception  they  are  completely 
individualized,  consistent  in  their  inconsistencies, 
thoroughly  human  ;  you  would  say  they  were  drawn 
from  life.  Among  them  all  you  will  fail  to  find  two 
alike.  Some  of  them  remain  with  you  and  become 
your  friends,  such,  for  instance,  as  St.  Julian  in  the 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


53 


charming  story  "  From  an  Island,"  and  others.  She 
fondly  loves  and  intuitively  understands  children-; 
dogs  and  all  dumb  and  helpless  things  have  a  claim 
on  her  affection  and  consideration.  She  is  like  the 
girls  whom  she  so  well  describes : 

"  Some  girls  have  the  motherly  element  strongly  developed 
in  them  from  their  veriest  babyhood,  when  they  nurse  their 
dolls  to  sleep  upon  their  soft  little  arms,  and  carefully  put 
away  the  little  broken  toy  because  it  must  be  in  pain." 

Note  how  with  a  stroke  of  her  vivifying  brush 
she  brings  out  a  child's  features.  Can  you  not  see 
Dulcie  as  she  counts  the  hour  ? 

"  Anne  heard  the  clock  strike  from  her  darkened  bed- 
room, where  she  was  lying  upon  the  sofa  resting.  Dulcie, 
playing  in  her  nursery,  counted  the  strokes,  f  Tebben,  two, 
one  ;  nonner  one,'  that  was  how  she  counted." 

Or,  as  she  sympathizes  with  and  tries  to  soothe  her 
father : 

"  Little  Dulcie  saw  her  father  looking  vexed ;  she  climbed 
up  his  leg  and  got  on  his  knee,  and  put  her  round,  soft 
cheek  against  his.    '  Sail  I  luboo?'  said  she." 

Are  you  not  a  child  again  from  pure  sympathy 
when  you  read  little  Dolly's  monologue  as  she  lies 
abed  in  a  dark  room  ? 

" 1  When  I  am  dying — I  dare  say  I  shall  die  about  seven- 
teen— I  shall  send  for  John  Morgan,  and  George  will  come 
from  Eton,  and  Aunt  Sarah  will  be  crying,  and,  perhaps, 


54 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


mamma  and  Capt.  Palmer  will  be  there,  and  I  shall  hold 
all  their  hands  in  mine,  and  say,  "  Now  be  friends  for  my 
sake."  And  then  I  shall  urge  George  to  exert  himself  more 
and  go  to  church  on  week  days ;  and  then  to  Aunt  Sarah 
I  shall  turn  with  a  sad  smile,  and  say,  "  Adieu,  dear  aunt, 
you  never  understood  me — you  fancied  me  a  child  when  I 
had  the  feelings  of  a  woman,  and  you  sneered  at  me,  and 
sent  me  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock.  Do  not  crush  George  and 
Ilhoda  as  you  have  crushed  me ;  be  gentle  with  them ;" 
and  then  I  shall  cross  my  hands  over  my  chest,  and — and, 
what  then  ?' " 

Are  these  not  master-touches?  Here  is  a  pic- 
ture made  with  a  few  lines  in  which,  with  other 
things,  the  very  feelings  of  the  young  people  are 
visible : 

"  To  this  day  Dolly  remembered  the  light  of  a  certain 
afternoon  in  May,  when  all  was  hot  and  silent  and  sleepy 
in  the  old  school-room  at  Church  House.  The  boards 
cracked,  the  dust-motes  floated ;  down  below,  the  garden 
burned  with  that  first  summer  glow  of  heat  that  makes  a 
new  world  out  of  such  old,  well-worn  materials  as  twigs, 
clouds,  birds,  and  the  human  beings  all  round  us.  The 
little  girls  had  been  at  work,  and  practised,  and  multiplied, 
and  divided  again  ;  they  had  recollected  various  facts  con- 
nected with  the  reign  of  Richard  II.  Mademoiselle  had 
suppressed  mauy  a  yawn;  Dolly  was  droning  over  her 
sum — six  and  five  made  thirteen — over  and  over  again. 
'  That  I  should  have  been,  that  thou  shouldst  have  been, 
that  he  should  have  been,'  drawled  poor  little  Ilhoda. 
Then  a  great  fly  hums  by  as  the  door  opens,  and  Lady 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


55 


Sarah  appears  with  a  zigzag  of  sunlight  shooting  in  from 
the  passage, — a  ray  of  hope." 

This  author's  gossarner-like  fancy  adorns  every 
page,  and  a  dewy  freshness  is  over  all.  In  her 
works  are  exquisite  qualities  so  subtle  that  they 
escape  dissection ;  they  cannot  be  seized  and  partic- 
ularly defined.  They  are  perceived  only  by  their 
sensible,  pervading,  and  charming  effect.  They  per- 
meate the  atmosphere  which  seems  to  emanate  from 
and  surround  her  stories,  and  cast  a  spell  upon  the 
refined  reader.  Of  a  like  cause  and  effect  she  is  her- 
self conscious,  and  in  "  Miss  Angel"  has  used  them 
designedly  with  consummate  skill.  So  long  as  Count 
Horn  is  acting  a  part,  he  bears  about  him  an  air,  a 
kind  of  magnetic  influence,  like  a  great  player  when 
he  comes  on  the  scene  and  is  said  to  fill  the  stage. 
This  atmosphere  which  surrounds  Horn  is  ominous; 
it  threatens  convulsion  and  disaster.  When  at  length 
his  trappings  are  torn  off,  and  he  appears  in  his  own 
character,  all  this  glamour  instantly  comes  to  an  end. 

"  Miss  Angel"  is  this  writer's  latest  book.  Its 
heroine  is  Angelica  Kauffmann,  the  painter,  who, 
one  hundred  years  ago,  was  celebrated,  flattered,  and 
caressed  by  the  great  world  of  London  for  her  talents, 
beauty,  and  accomplishments.  The  work  is  a  biog- 
raphy and  reads  like  a  romance;  it  is  a  romance  and 
reads  like  a  biography.  Its  personages  are  all  his- 
torical; its  scenes  pass  in  real  life.  The  outlines  of 
fact,  selected  with  reference  to  fine  symmetry,  are 
filled- in  from  the  writer's  imagination,  and  colored 


56  HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 

bo  tluit  form  and  tints  show  most  pleasing  harmony 
and  proportion.  So  exquisitely  is  fiction  woven  with 
fact  that  you  cannot  distinguish  the  threads  by  an 
inspection  of  the  texture  alone.  You  are  certain  that 
the  author  is  guiltless  of  affectation  when  she  says, — 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  tell  a  little  story,  of  which  the 
characters  and  incidents  have  come  to  me  through  a  win- 
ter's gloom  so  vividly  that  as  I  write  now  I  can  scarcely  tell 
what  is  real  and  what  is  but  my  own  imagination  in  it  all." 

The  very  limitations  of  fact  and  the  nature  of  the 
task  repressed  the  action  of  any  tendency  which  she 
might  have  felt  to  mar  the  shapeliness  of  her  work 
by  prolonged  and  repeated  analyses,  philosophical 
reflections,  and  moral  deductions.  She  had  a  story 
to  tell,  and  she  has  told  it  with  such  graces  and  em- 
bellishments as  truth  and  good  taste  allow;  and  thus 
she  has  produced  one  of  her  most  perfect  achieve- 
ments. Here,  as  elswhere,  her  style  is  unaffected, 
polished,  vigorous,  nearly  faultless,  quite  charming. 
Only  occasionally  does  she  manifest  an  inclination  to 
fall  into  certain  not  very  offensive  mannerisms;  very 
rarely,  indeed,  does  she  use  a  word  inelegantly  or 
inaccurately.  Her  works  do  praise  her;  they  bear 
witness  to  a  sweet,  rich,  delicate,  large,  loving,  thor- 
oughly healthy,  uncommonly  pure,  and  very  fruitful 
nature.  She  is  well  known  in  America  as  well  as  in 
Europe;  but,  unlike  many  writers  of  the  present 
day,  Miss  Thackeray's  merits  are  greater  than  her 
reputation. 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


57 


AN"  INGENIOUS  MORALIST. 

"  These  fellow-mortals,  every  one,  must  be  accepted  as 
they  are :  you  can  neither  straighten  their  noses,  nor  brighten 
their  wit,  nor  rectify  their  dispositions ;  and  it  is  these 
people — among  whom  your  life  is  passed— that  it  is  useful 
you  should  tolerate,  pity,  and  love ;  it  is  these,  more  or  less 
ugly,  stupid,  inconsistent  people,  whose  movements  of  good- 
ness you  should  be  able  to  admire,  for  whom  you  should 
cherish  all  possible  hopes,  all  possible  patience.  And  I 
would  not,  even  if  I  had  the  choice,  be  the  clever  novelist 
who  could  create  a  world  so  much  better  than  this,  in  which 
we  get  up  in  the  morning  to  do  our  daily  work,  that  you 
would  be  likely  to  turn  a  harder,  colder  eye  on  the  dusty 
streets  and  the  common  green  fields — on  the  real  breathing 
men  and  women,  who  can  be  chilled  by  your  indifference  or 
injured  by  your  prejudice;  who  can  be  cheered  and  helped 
onward  by  your  fellow-feeling,  your  forbearance,  your  out- 
spoken, brave  justice. 

"  So  I  am  content  to  tell  my  simple  story,  without  trying 
to  make  things  seem  better  than  they  were, — dreading 
nothing,  indeed,  but  falsity,  which,  in  spite  of  one's  best 
efforts,  there  is  reason  to  dread.  Falsehood  is  so  easy,  truth 
so  difficult.  The  pencil  is  conscious  of  a  delightful  facility 
in  drawing  a  griffin, — the  longer  the  claws  and  the  larger 
the  wings  the  better  ;  b"ut  that  marvellous  facility,  which  we 
mistook  for  genius,  is  apt  to  forsake  us  when  we  want  to 

6 


58 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


draw  a  real,  unexaggerated  lion.  Examine  your  words  well, 
and  you  will  find  that  even  when  you  have  no  motive  to  be 
false,  it  is  a  very  hard  thing  to  say  the  exact  truth,  even 
about  your  own  immediate  feelings, — much  harder  than  to 
say  something  fine  about  them  which  is  not  the  exact  truth. 

"  It  is  for  this  rare,  precious  quality  of  truthfulness  that 
I  delight  in  many  Dutch  paintings,  which  lofty-minded 
people  despise.  I  find  a  source  of  delicious  sympathy  in 
these  faithful  pictures  of  a  monotonous,  homely  existence, 
which  has  been  the  fate  of  so  many  more  among  my  fellow- 
mortals  than  a  life  of  pomp  or  of  absolute  indigence,  of 
tragic  suffering  or  of  world-stirring  actions.  I  turn  without 
shrinking  from  cloud-borne  angels,  from  prophets,  sibyls,  and 
heroic  warriors,  to  an  old  woman  bending  over  her  flower- 
pot, or  eating  her  solitary  dinner,  while  the  noonday  light, 
softened,  perhaps,  by  a  screen  of  leaves,  falls  on  her  mob- 
cap,  and  just  touches  the  rim  of  her  spinning-wheel,  and 
her  stone  jug,  and  all  those  cheap,  common  things  which 
are  the  precious  necessaries  of  life  to  her ;  or  I  turn  to  that 
village  wedding,  kept  between  four  brown  walls,  where  an 
awkward  bridegroom  opens  the  dance  with  a  high-shouldered, 
broad-faced  bride,  while  elderly  and  middle-aged  friends 
look  on,  with  very  irregular  noses  and  lips,  and  probably 
with  quart  pots  in  their  hands,  but  with  an  expression  of 
unmistakable  contentment  and  good- will. 

{4  In  this  world  there  are  so  many  of  these  common,  coarse 
people  who  have  no  picturesque  sentimental  wretchedness ! 
It  is  so  needful  we  should  remember  their  existence,  else  we 
may  happen  to  leave  them  quite  out  of  our  religion  and 
philosophy,  and  frame  lofty  theories  which  only  fit  a  world 
of  extremes.  There  are  few  prophets  in  the  world,  few 
sublimely  beautiful  women,  few  heroes.    I  can't  afford  to 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


59 


give  all  my  love  and  reverence  to  such  rarities ;  I  want  a 
great  deal  of  those  feelings  for  my  every-day  fellow-men, 
especially  for  the  few  in  the  foreground  of  the  great  multi- 
tude whose  faces  I  know,  whose  hands  I  touch,  for  whom 
I  have  to  make  way  with  kindly  courtesy.  It  is  more  need- 
ful that  I  should  have  a  fibre  of  sympathy  connecting  me 
with  that  vulgar  citizen  who  weighs  out  my  sugar  in  a  vilely- 
assorted  cravat  and  waistcoat  than  with  the  handsomest 
rascal  in  red  scarf  and  green  feathers ;  more  needful  that 
my  heart  should  swell  with  loving  admiration  at  some  trait 
of  gentle  goodness  in  the  faulty  people  who  sit  at  the  same 
hearth  with  me,  or  in  the  clergyman  of  my  own  parish, 
who  is  perhaps  rather  too  corpulent,  aud  in  other  respects 
is  not  an  Oberlin  or  a  Tillotson,  than  at  the  deeds  of  heroes 
whom  I  shall  never  know  except  by  hearsay,  or  at  the 
sublimest  abstract  of  all  clerical  graces  that  was  ever  con- 
ceived by  an  able  novelist." 

Thus  George  Eliot  defines  the  sphere  and  purpose 
of  her  novels.  You  see  she  is  eminently  practical,  a 
teacher  of  charity  and  fellow-feeling ;  makes  us  sym- 
pathize with  the  fictitious  in  order  that  we  may  sym- 
pathize with  the  real ;  unveils  the  larger  and  better 
aspect  of  common  humanity,  that  we  may  see  it 
nearer  and  more  clearly,  and  know  that  all  the  men 
and  women  about  us  are  of  like  desires,  hopes,  pas- 
sions, sufferings,  temptations,  and  virtues  as  our- 
selves. For  such  humanity  she  would  have  us 
"  make  way  with  kindly  courtesy,"  not  with  affected 
superiority  or  supercilious  contempt  jostle  it  roughly, 
override  it,  or  with  selfish  indifference  pass  it  by  on 
the  other  side.   Her  one  text  is,  "  Love  thy  neighbor 


GO 


JIOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


as  thyself ;"  the  purpose  of  her  expositions  to  prove 
that  our  neighbors  belong  to  no  one  class,  but  are 
found  in  all  stations;  that  as  human  beings,  nothing 
human  should  be  to  us  foreign,  common,  or  unclean. 
She  does  not  propose  to  herself  simply  to  compose  a 
work  of  art,  a  thing  of  beauty,  for  the  sake  of  its 
loveliness  and  the  joy  which  it  shall  cause  forever. 
Usefulness  is  her  first  object.  She  will  make  men 
better,  more  gentle,  more  kindly,  more  considerate. 
Art  may  be  employed  as  an  aid  in  effecting  this 
object,  as  fine  music  may  be  used  in  the  churches. 
But  it  must  be  subservient  to  the  grand  moral  pur- 
pose. If  complete  art  cannot  consist  with  the  ethical 
design,  so  much  the  worse  for  the  art ;  it  must  suffer, 
have  its  position  reversed,  be  dismembered  if  neces- 
sary. The  sublimely  beautiful  pagan  temple  is  util- 
ized so  far  and  in  such  way  as  it  may  be  to  build  the 
hall  for  moral  lectures.  A  frieze,  an  arch,  a  portico, 
a  capital  may  remain  entire,  but  they  are  dissevered 
the  one  from  the  other;  plain  English  granite, 
British  oak,  or  stucco  intervenes,  their  harmonious 
relations  and  proportions  are  destroyed,  the  work  of 
art  has  disappeared,  but  its  substance  has  become 
useful. 

Having  placed  before  herself  this  proposition, 
namely,  that  common  men  and  women  are  endowed 
with  all  the  attributes  of  humanity,  particularly  those 
which  are  most  worthy  of  respect  and  admiration, — 
tenderness,  amiability,  integrity,  patience,  fortitude, 
manliness,  resignation,  perseverance  in  well-doing,  a 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


61 


guiding  conscience,  veneration,  true  religion ;  and 
that  they  should  be  treated  with  kind  consideration 
and  courtesy,  should  have  all  the  sympathy  and 
esteem  which  these  qualities  merit,  she  is  impelled 
by  the  incitements  of  a  strong  logical  instinct  to 
demonstrate  it.  Hence  the  plan  of  her  work  becomes 
that  of  a  demonstrative  argument,  rather  than  the 
argument,  or  plot,  of  a  work  of  art.  A  keen,  bril- 
liant, philosophic  Frenchman  has  declared  that  such 
a  plan  and  such  a  purpose  are  characteristic  of  Eng- 
lish writers.  "  Hardly  ever,"  says  Henri  Taine, 
"  does  a  book  paint  a  man  in  a  disinterested  manner ; 
critics,  philosophers,  historians,  novelists,  poets  even, 
give  a  lesson,  maintain  a  theory,  unmask  or  furnish 
a  vice,  represent  a  temptation  overcome,  relate  the 
history  of  a  character  becoming  formed.  Their  exact 
and  minute  description  of  sentiments  ends  always  in 
approbation  or  blame;  they  are  not  artists,  but 
moralists."  « 

Even  the  master-poet,  Milton,  avows  such  a  design 
almost  at  the  very -beginning  of  his  great  poem  : 

"  What  in  me  is  dark 
Illumine,  what  is  low  raise  and  support ; 
That  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument 
I  may  assert  eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  G-od  to  men." 

It  must  be  conceded  that,  in  going  her  chosen  way, 
George  Eliot  follows  in  the  footsteps  of  most  illus- 
trious predecessors.  To  carry  out  her  demonstration 
satisfactorily  she  is  constrained  to  enter  very  much 

6* 


02 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


into  details,  not  of  actions,  but  of  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings.   The  personage  in  her  hands  becomes  a  kind 
of  moral  manikin,  which,  with  every  change  of  pos- 
ture, is  dissected,  and  the  cause  and  manner  of  the 
change  minutely  explained,  in  order  that  the  auditory 
may  be  instructed,  but,  above  all,  convinced  that 
such  changes  and  movements  are  reasonable  and 
natural,  philosophically,  and  that  they  lead,  more  or 
less  directly,  to  good  or  evil.    These  dissections  are 
apt  to  occur  too  often,  to  last  too  long,  to  seem  like 
repetitions.    We  would  rather  see  the  manikin  move, 
guess  at  the  cause,  take  it  for  granted  that  the 
motions  are  like  those  of  nature,  and  draw  our  own 
moral  from  the  catastrophe,  whether  it  be  the  ascent 
of  the  figure  on  a  bright  canvas  cloud  or  its  descent 
into  brighter,  resinous  flames.    When  we  go  to  see 
the  puppets  play  we  are  interested  by  the  marvel, 
not  the  mechanism.    When  we  visit  the  sculptor's 
fc  exhibition  room  our  sense  of  beauty  is  gratified  and 
excited  by  art ;  when  we  are  in  his  work-shop  our 
curiosity  may  be  appeased  by  knowledge.    The  pur- 
poses which  lead  us  to  the  different  apartments  are 
as  diverse  as  are  the  kinds  of  satisfaction  which  we 
may  receive.    Wishing  to  enjoy  art,  we  should  find 
only  offence  by  entering  a  laboratory.    Should  we 
desire  only  fine  music  we  would  rather  listen  to  it 
without  being  compelled  to  hear  a  sermon  as  well. 
But  for  the  sake  of  the  melody  we  do  incline  an  ear 
to  the  preaching  also,  as  the  preacher  believed  and 
intended  that  we  should ;  and  in  one  sense  his  art  is 


THESE  A  UTIIORS. 


G3 


thereby  made  evident.    So,  for  the  sake  of  what  is 
very  beautiful  in  George  Eliot's  novels,  Ave  read 
many  philosophic  and  moral  disquisitions  of  greater 
or  less  length,  many  long  and  minute  expositions  of 
commonplace  characters,  which  in  real  life  could 
hardly  fail  to  be  tedious,  all  the  time  somewhat  impa- 
tient for  the  action,  which  has  been  brought  to  a  stand- 
still by  this  interjected  matter,  to  resume  its  course. 
Most  of  this  matter,  by  itself  considered,  is  of  sur- 
passing merit,  shows  the  author  to  be  a  person  of 
very  uncommon  fulness,  breadth,  and  depth,  mis- 
tress of  a  very  wide  range  of  thought,  intimate  to  a 
surprising  degree  with  the  phases  and  labyrinths  of 
human  nature.    She  says  good  things  enough  to  fill 
volumes,  as  has  been  proved.    If  one  of  these  vol- 
umes be  examined  by  a  person  ignorant  of  the 
author's  fame,  he  would  suppose  its  contents  to  have 
been  chiefly  extracted  from  brilliant  essays  over- 
charged with  the  results  of  large  observation  and 
profound  thought,  with  the  proofs  also  of  extraor- 
dinary intuition.    But  these  essays  and  these  good 
things  which  are  uttered  in  her  own  person  are 
mostly  out  of  place  in  a  novel,  if  the  novel  be  re- 
garded and  criticised  as  a  work  of  art.    Their  intro- 
duction is  inartistic;  they  form  excrescences  more 
or  less  composed  of  foreign  matter ;  they  render  the 
reader,  who  is  anxious  to  follow  the  story  without 
hindrance,  restless  and  inattentive,  so  that  he  is  in 
no  mood  to  value  them  at  their  proper  estimate  and 
profit  by  them ;  they  destroy  the  momentum  of  the 


G4 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


action  when  it  should  be  moving  on  with  accelerating 
speed  and  narrowing  sweep  to  a  climax.  And  yet 
they  would  almost  surely  delight  such  readers  if  en- 
countered in  a  book  of  essays,  taken  up  as  such.  In 
so  doing  her  work,  however,  the  author  is  but  fol- 
lowing the  general  plan  which  serves  as  a  model  for 
some  of  the  most  popular  living  English  novelists 
besides  herself ;  according  to  which  plan,  taken  as  a 
standard,  the  perfect  novel  would  be  represented  by 
an  admixture  of  about  equal  parts  of  "  The  Specta- 
tor," "The  Rambler,"  and  "Tom  Jones"  expurgated. 
At  the  same  time,  she  is  achieving  her  prescribed 
purpose,  enforcing  her  arguments,  and  pleasing  her 
countrymen,  if  it  can,  indeed,  be  truly  said  to  her  of 
them,  "  Their  mood  requires  strong  emotions ;  their 
mind  asks  for  precise  demonstrations.  To  satisfy 
their  mood  you  must  not  touch  the  surface,  but 
torture  vice :  to  satisfy  their  mind  you  must  not 
rail  in  sallies,  but  by  arguments." 

It  is  not  improbable  that  George  Eliot  would  be  a 
greater  artist  were  she  a  smaller  woman.  Her  fac- 
ulties are  so  many,  so  equally  and  so  fully  developed, 
that  she  remains  in  a  state  of  tranquil  equipoise 
unfavorable  to  that  enthusiasm  which,  under  the 
name  of  inspiration,  takes  possession  of  the  true 
artist,  transports  and  transfigures  him  as  he  stands  in 
the  presence  of  that  divine  beauty  which  is  the  object 
of  his  adoration,  forgetful  of  everything  other  than 
the  work  of  rendering  visible  to  all  eyes  the  glori- 
ous loveliness  and  ineffable  might  before  which  he 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


65 


trembles  in  ecstasy.  Her  imagination  is  held  in  strict 
subjection  to  her  judgment;  it  is  the  handmaid,  not 
the  mistress,  of  logic.  This,  in  her  esteem,  is  accord- 
ing to  the  proper  subordination  of  the  faculties,  and 
the  experience  is  what  she  herself  calls  "that  delight- 
ful labor  of  the"  imagination  which  is  not  mere 
arbitrariness,  but  the  exercise  of  disciplined  power 
— combining  and  constructing  with  the  clearest  eye 
for  probabilities  and  the  fullest  obedience  to  knowl- 
edge; and  then,  in  yet  more  energetic  alliance  Avith 
impartial  nature,  standing  aloof  to  invent  tests  by 
which  to  try  its  own  work." 

She  keeps  fancy  in  leading  strings ;  does  not  give 
it  the  rein  even  when  making  an  ascent ;  guides  it 
mostly  into  level  ground  ;  works  it  in  harness  after 
the  manner  of  a  scientific  explorer;  and  uses  analysis 
as  the  test  of  whatever  fancy  may  find.  She  is  not 
content  to  give  the  results  of  such  tests  in  their 
crystalline  form.  She  wants  the  spectators  to  see  for 
themselves  the  demonstration.  And  so  the  apparatus 
is  displayed,  and  the  analysis  made  publicly.  It 
might  be  said  that,  in  common  with  all  novel-writers 
of  the  same  school,  she  shows  a  certain  shrewd  policy 
in  such  manner  of  proceeding,  if  the  chief  object  be 
to  secure  commendation  for  what  the  persons  of  the 
story  do.  The  reader  becomes  so  impatient  for  the 
examination  to  end,  and  for  the  personage  to  do 
something,  that  he  is  likely  to  approve  that  some- 
thing when  done,  whatever  it  be;  and  thus  he  is,  in 
a  way,  constrained  into  approbation  of  the  characters. 


gg  HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


This  is  the  method  of  the  mechanical  inventor  and 
the  logician,  not  that  of  the  poet,  whose  imagination 
and  intuition  grasp  all  the  parts  of  the  creation  at 
once,  see  it  through  and  through,  without  analysis, 
but  as  with  the  all-seeing  eye  of  a  creator.  Not 
after  the  manner  of  this  school  of  novelists  did 
Plomer,  Virgil,  Apuleius,  Dante,  Boccaccio,  Cer- 
vantes, and  other  writers  of  immortal  stories  do  their 
work.  Not  thus  did  Shakspeare  demonstrate  fidel- 
ity to  nature  and  probability  in  his  creations. 

The  author  makes  one  of  her  own  heroes  regard 
these  matters  from  her  own  point  of  view : 

"  Many  men  have  been  praised  as  vividly  imaginative  on 
the  strength  of  their  profuseness  or  indifferent  drawing  or 
cheap  narration — reports  of  very  poor  talk  going  on  in  dis- 
tant orbs ;  or  portraits  of  Lucifer  coming  down  on  his  bad 
errands  as  a  large,  ugly  man  with  bat's  wings  and  spurts  of 
phosphorescence ;  or  exaggerations  of  wantonness  that  seem 
to  reflect  life  in  a  diseased  dream.  But  these  kinds  of  in- 
spiration Lydgate  regarded  as  rather  vulgar  and  vinous 
compared  with  the  imagination  that  reveals  subtle  actions 
inaccessible  to  any  sort  of  lens,  but  tracked  in  that  outer 
darkness  though  long  pathways  of  necessary  sequence  by  the 
inward  light  which  is  the  last  refinement  of  energy,  capable 
of  bathing  even  the  ethereal  atoms  in  its  ideally  illuminated 
space.  He  for  his  part  had  tossed  away  all  cheap  inven- 
tions where  ignorance  finds  itself  able  and  at  ease :  he  was 
enamored  of  that  arduous  invention  which  is  the  very  eye 
of  research,  provisionally  framing  its  object,  and  correcting 
it  to  more  and  more  exactness  of  relation ;  he  wanted  to 
pierce  the  obscurity  of  those  minute  processes  which  pre- 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


G7 


face  human  misery  and  joy,  those  invisible  thoroughfares 
which  are  the  first  lurking-places  of  anguish,  mania,  crime, 
and  that  delicate  poise  and  transition  which  determine  the 
growth  of  happy  or  unhappy  consciousness." 

Any  careful  student  of  George  Eliot's  writings 
must  recognize  in  the  above  quotation  a  very  clear 
description  of  the  way  in  which  she  uses  imagination 
in  making  a  book.  The  natural  result  of  this  method 
is  a  certain  formality  of  style,  a  kind  of  rigid  exact- 
ness, an  appearance  of  constraint,  a  want  of  effusive 
spontaneity.  Her  structures  are  not  like  the  pro-  ^ 
ducts  of  rich  nature,  flowing  and  exuberant;  they 
are  like  mason-work.  Each  word  and  each  sentence 
is  measured,  squared,  fitted.  All  is  very  solid  and 
strong,  admirably  done,  after  its  kind.  But  the 
building  is  not  a  temple  of  the  muses ;  it  is  a  store- 
house, made  for  utility,  which  must  not  be  lessened 
by  any  concession  to  harmony  of  proportion  or  to 
lines  of  beauty.  The  materials  are  carefully  selected, 
good,  durable,  well  polished,  but  the  marks  of  the 
chisel  and  of  the  sand-paper  remain.  We  feel  that 
the  edifice  is  the  work  of  a  laborious  as  well  as  a 
skilful  mechanic,  not  the  magical  creation  of  untram- 
melled genius.  That  genius  had  some  part  in  it  we 
are  very  sure;  but  we  feel  equally  sure  that  this 
genius  had  been  reduced  to  servitude,  enslaved  by 
practical,  somewhat  matter-of-fact  wisdom,  looking 
to  turn  the  captive  sprite's  achievements  to  the  best 
account. 

Even  nature  seems  to  be  loved  by  this  author  for 


(}g  HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


its  usefulness  rather  than  for  its  beauty;  or,  it  might 
be  said,  for  the  beauty  of  its  usefulness.  She  sym- 
pathizes with  its  catholicity,  its  munificence,  its  un- 
ostentatious benevolence.  Fruit-trees  with  fruit,  or 
blossoms  promising  beneficence,  berry-bushes  over- 
laden with  a  luscious  crop,  hedge-rows,  foliage  in  the 
shade  of  which  cattle  ruminate,  excite  in  her  the 
same  kind  and  degree  of  enthusiastic  admiration  as 
do  stores  of  clean,  sweet-smelling  household  linen, 
or  the  dairy  which  "was  certainly  worth  looking  at. 
It  was  a  scene  to  sicken  for,  with  a  sort  of  calenture 
in  hot  and  dusty  streets — such  coolness,  such  purity, 
such  fresh  fragrance  of  new-pressed  cheese,  of  firm 
butter,  of  wooden  vessels  perpetually  bathed  in  pure 
water,  such  soft  coloring  of  red  earthenware  and 
creamy  surfaces,  brown  wood  and  polished  tin,  gray 
limestone  and  rich  orange-red  rust  on  the  iron 
weights,  and  hooks,  and  hinges." 

Rarely,  if  ever,  does  she  show  any  irrepressible 
love  for,  any  enthusiastic  worship  of,  nature  pure  and 
simple.  She  describes  scenes  as  she  would  draw  a 
map  for  the  convenience  of  the  reader,  to  make  her 
story  plainer  and  more  easily  understood.  She  is  too 
great  a  woman,  too  complete,  not  to  admire  what  in 
nature  is  glorious ;  but  this  admiration  is  counter- 
poised and  checked  this  side  of  enthusiasm  by  a 
greater  interest  in  practical  uses.  For  these  prac- 
tical uses,  cleanly  and  tastefully  brought  about,  are 
for  her  eyes  the  world's  chiefest  beauty. 

With  such  logic,  such  a  bent  for  analysis,  such  an 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


69 


instinct  for  diving  into  the  undercurrents  of  things, 
such  aptitude  for  precise  and  perfect  demonstration, 
such  a  purpose  to  enforce  moral  convictions,  you  see 
at  once  what  the  result  must  be.  The  author  does 
not  present  to  you  a  rotund  world,  created  myste- 
riously in  darkness,  which  is  rent  asunder  only  that 
light  may  fall  on  multiform  and  many-colored  beauty, 
valleys  and  mountains,  grassy  knolls  and  bleak  vol- 
canoes, brooks  and  torrents,  calms  and  tempests.  She 
fears  lest  you  should  doubt  its  solidity,  lest  you 
should  question  the  principle  of  its  construction,  lest 
you  should  think  that  its  streams  ought  to  run  up 
hill,  its  trees  bear  fruit  before  blossoming,  its  har- 
vest come  before  its  seed-time.  Therefore  she  carries 
on  the  making  in  your  presence,  expounds  its  princi- 
ples, demonstrates  its  philosophy,  shows  that  it  is  well 
done,  convinces  your  judgment.  She  does  not  take 
it  for  granted  that  you  know  something  of  human 
nature  and  of  the  laws  which  govern  it,  something 
of  world-building,  and  can  infer  motives  from  actions, 
and  causes  from  effects. 

Her  world  is,  indeed,  not  made  because  it  is  good, 
but  in  order  that  you  may  be  taught  by  seeing  of 
what  and  how  it  is  put  together. 

"  You  could  not  live  among  such  people  ;  you  are  stifled 
for  want  of  an  outlet  toward  something  beautiful,  great,  or 
noble ;  you  are  irritated  with  these  dull  men  and  women, 
as  a  kind  of  population  out  of  keeping  with  the  earth  on 
which  they  live, — with  this  rich  plain  where  the  great  river 
flows  forever  onward,  and  links  the  small  pulse  of  the  old 
.  7 


70 


JIOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


English  town  with  the  beatings  of  the  world's  mighty  heart. 
A  vigorous  superstition,  that  lashes  its  gods  or  lashes  its 
own  back,  seems  to  be  more  congruous  with  the  mystery  of 
the  human  lot  than  the  mental  condition  of  these  emmet- 
like Dodsons  and  Tullivers. 

"  I  share  with  you  this  sense  of  oppressive  narrowness  ; 
but  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  feel  it,  if  we  care  to  un- 
derstand how  it  acted  on  the  lives  of  Tom  and  Maggie — 
how  it  has  acted  on  young  natures  in  many  generations, 
that  in  the  onward  tendency  of  human  things  have  risen 
above  the  mental  level  of  the  generation  before  them,  to 
which  they  have  been  nevertheless  tied  by  the  strongest 
fibres  of  their  hearts.  The  suffering,  whether  of  martyr  or 
victim,  which  belongs  to  every  historical  advance  of  man- 
kind, is  represented  in  this  way  in  every  town,  and  by  hun- 
dreds of  obscure  hearths ;  and  we  need  not  shrink  from  this 
comparison  of  small  things  wTith  great ;  for  does  not  science 
tell  us  that  its  highest  striving  is  after  the  ascertainment  of 
a  unity  which  shall  bind  the  smallest  things  with  the  great- 
est? In  natural  science,  I  have  understood,  there  is  nothing 
petty  to  the  mind  that  has  a  large  vision  of  relations,  and 
to  which  every  single  object  suggests  a  vast  sum  of  condi- 
tions. It  is  surely  the  same  with  the  observation  of  human 
life." 

She  tells  you  this  herself.  Do  you  not  feel  as  if 
in  a  narrow  school-room  with  low  ceiling  and  imper- 
fect ventilation,  longing  to  get  out  into  the  free  air 
of  heaven,  in  sight  of  the  clouds,  and  the  green  trees, 
and  the  illimitable  space  ?  But  the  teacher  says  you 
must  stay  and  study  if  you  want  to  become  good 
men  and  women,  and  so  you  read  on,  or  listen  to  the 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


71 


lecture,  for  now  she  is  showing  you  by  experiment 
and  explanation  that  the  smutty  charcoal  which  you 
shrink  from  touching  and  the  radiant  diamond  which 
you  caress  upon  your  bosom,  are  composed  of  the 
same  elemental  matter.  Whether  the  coal  offend  or 
the  diamond  delight  you  is  a  secondary  considera- 
tion. You  did  not  come  here  simply  to  see  gems. 
You  must  ascertain  the  unity  of  things,  and  hereafter 
have  more  respect  for  the  charcoal. 

The  poet,  that  is  to  say,  the  great  artist,  like  this 
writer,  sees  good  in  everything.  Unlike  her  he  sees 
it  through  ideality,  and  through  ideality  makes  it 
known,  having  an  unconquerable  instinctive  feeling 
that  by  increasing  and  diffusing  such  ideality  he  is 
inevitably  making  the  world  better. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  George  Eliot  uses  ideality. 
But,  as  intimated  above,  she  employs  it  as  some  part 
of  a  complete  apparatus  for  making  an  exact  imita- 
tion of  what  is  real.  She  pursues  this  object  with 
grand  steadiness  and  freshness  of  nerve,  an  ever- 
present  discrimination,  a  perfectly  clear  conception 
of  what  she  wants  to  do,  an  almost  unfailing  judg- 
ment of  modes  and  materials  of  illustration.  She 
brings  to  her  task  a  very  wTide  range  of  apparently 
exact  knowledge.  You  are  convinced  that  she  could 
deliver  instructive  lectures  on  the  intricacies  of  real- 
estate  law,  on  medical  science  and  its  history,  on 
statesmanship,  on  theology  and  its  influence  in  the 
world,  on  political  intrigues  and  the  tricks  of  dema- 
gogues, on  any  of  the  exact  sciences,  on  the  syntax 


72  SOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


of  the  Latin  and  Greek  languages,  not  disdaining 
even  to  tell  you  how  carpentry  work  is  made,  farms 
drained  and  tilled,  cattle  and  the  dairy  cared  for, 
quarries  and  mines  worked,  weaving  done;  how  dif- 
ferent men  smoke  their  pipes  differently,  and  the 
indications  of  character  therein  displayed  ;  how  topers 
like  their  toddy  mixed ;  how  men  and  women  of  all 
classes  talk  and  act ;  how  comfortable  or  uncomfort- 
able it  is  to  be  shaved  by  a  barber.  You  are  sure 
that  her  character  is  composed  of  many  parts ;  that 
is  to  say,  her  humanity  is  large,  full,  and  complete ; 
that  she  is  very  catholic,  very  charitable,  very  tender- 
hearted ;  that  she  is  kind  to  speechless  animals  and 
all  helpless  things. 

"  'Poor  dog  !'  said  Dinah,  patting  the  rough,  gray  coat, 
'  I've  a  strange  feeling  about  the  dumb  things  as  if  they 
wanted  to  speak,  and  it  was  a  trouble  to  'em  because  they 
couldn't.  I  can't  help  being  sorry  for  the  dogs  always, 
though,  perhaps,  there's  no  need.  But  they  may  well  have 
more  in  them  than  they  know  how  to  make  us  understand, 
for  we  can't  say  half  what  we  feel,  with  all  our  words.'  " 

You  notice  her  love  for  children,  and  how  plainly 
she  brings  out  their  portraits  by  a  few  master-strokes. 

"  He  drew  little  Bessie  toward  him,  and  set  her  on  his 
knee.  She  shook  her  yellow  curls  out  of  her  eyes  and 
looked  up  at  him,  as  she  said : 

" '  Zoo  tome  to  tee  ze  zady  ?  Zoo  mek  her  peak  ?  What 
zoo  do  to  her  ?    Tiss  her  ?' 

"  '  Do  you  like  to  be  kissed,  Bessie  ?' 

"'Det,'  said  Bessie,  immediately  ducking  down  her  head 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


73 


very  low,  in  resistance  to  the  expected  rejoinder.  '  We've 
got  two  pups,'  said  young  Daniel,  emboldened  by  observing 
the  gentleman's  amenities  toward  Bessie.  '  Shall  T  show 
'em  yer?    One's  got  white  spots.'  " 

Like  this  is  the  following  picture  of  the  child- 
woman,  Tessa : 

"  1  Yes,'  he  said ;  1  but  I  can  hear  very  well — I'm  not 
deaf.' 

" '  It  is  true  ;  I  forgot,'  said  Tessa,  lifting  her  hands 
and  clasping  them.  'But  Monna  Lisa  is  deaf,  and  I  live 
with  her.  She's  a  kind  old  woman,  and  I'm  not  frightened 
at  her.  And  we  live  very  well ;  we  have  plenty  of  nice 
things.  I  can  have  nuts  if  I  like.  And  I'm  not  obliged 
to  work  now.  I  used  to  have  to  work,  and  I  didn't  like  it ; 
but  I  liked  feeding  the  mules,  and  I  should  like  to  see  poor 
Giannetta,  the  little  mule,  again.  We've  only  got  a  goat 
and  two  kids,  and  I  used  to  talk  to  the  goat  a  good  deal, 
because  there  was  nobody  else  but  Monna  Lisa.  But  now 
I've  got  something  else — can  you  guess  what  it  is  ?'  She 
drew  her  head  back  and  looked  with  a  challenging  smile  at 
Baldassarre,  as  if  she  had  proposed  a  difficult  riddle  to  him. 

"  '  No,'  said  he,  putting  aside  his  bowl,  and  looking  at 
her  dreamily.  It  seemed  as  if  this  young,  prattling  thing 
were  some  memory  come  back  out  of  his  own  youth. 

"  '  You  like  me  to  talk  to  you,  don't  you  ?'  said  Tessa ; 
'  but  you  must  not  tell  anybody.  Shall  I  fetch  you  a  bit  of 
cold  sausage  ?' 

"  He  shook  his  head,  but  he  looked  so  mild  now  that 
Tessa  felt  quite  at  her  ease. 

" '  Well,  then,  I've  got  a  little  baby.  Such  a  pretty 
hambinetto,  with  little  fingers  and  nails  !    Not  old  yet ;  it 

7* 


74 


II OW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


was  born  at  the  Nativita,  Monna  Lisa  says.  I  was  married 
one  Nativita,  a  long  while  ago,  and  nobody  knew.  0, 
Santa  Madonna  !  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you  that.'  " 

"  Tessa  set  up  her  shoulders  and  bit  her  lip,  looking  at 
Baldassarre  as  if  this  betrayal  of  secrets  must  have  an 
exciting  effect  on  him  too.  But  he  seemed  not  to  care 
much  ;  and  perhaps  that  was  the  nature  of  strangers." 

Note  the  distinctness  of  these  delineations.  You 
would  say  that  no  explanatory  lectures  should  be 
needful  to  the  comprehension  of  works  drawn  by  so 
skilful  a  painter.  Observe  that  which  follows,  quite 
as  distinct,  but  of  a  different  kind  : 

"  On  the  broad  marble  steps  of  the  Duomo  there  were 
scattered  groups  of  beggars  and  gossipping  talkers ;  here  an 
old  crone  with  white  hair  and  hard,  sunburned  face,  encour- 
aging a  round-capped  baby  to  try  its  tiny  bare  feet  on  the 
warm  marble,  while  a  dog  sitting  near  snuffed  at  the  per- 
formance suspiciously ;  there  a  couple  of  shaggy-headed 
boys  leaning  to  watch  a  small,  pale  cripple  who  was  cutting 
a  face  on  a  cherry-stone ;  and  above  them  on  the  wide 
platform  men  were  making  changing  knots  in  laughing, 
desultory  chat,  or  else  were  standing  in  close  couples  gestic- 
ulating eagerly." 

You  become  aware  that  she  is  a  keen  observer  of 
traits  and  personal  peculiarities,  and  that  she  uses 
them  adroitly  to  give  prominence  to  individuality 
when  you  see  Mr.  Tulliver,  as  he  gives  expression  to 
a  novel  thought,  "  turning  his  head  on  one  side  and 
giving  his  horse  a  meditative  tickling  on  the  flank," 
or  "  the  wiry-faced  Nolan  pinching  his  under-lip 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


75 


between  his  thumb  and  finger,  and  giving  one  of 
those  wonderful  universal  shrugs  by  which  he 
seemed  to  be  recalling  all  his  garments  from  a  ten- 
dency to  disperse  themselves." 

You  see  that  she  wields  a  graphic  pen ;  that  her 
pictures  are  remarkable  for  fidelity  to  nature,  which 
is  not  copied  more  exactly  in  the  Dutch  paintings 
that  she  so  much  admires  and  takes  for  her  models. 
She  is  not  a  sculptor,  does  not  readily  conceive  form, 
but  has  an  eye  for  harmony  of  colors  when  grouping 
details.  The  tones  of  her  delineations  are  consonant; 
the  state  of  the  weather,  of  the  sky,  the  clouds,  and 
the  earth  is  in  unison  with  the  sentiment  of  the  scene. 
Her  skill  in  choosing  fit  words  to  suggest  a  figure  or 
present  a  side  view  is  not  easily  surpassed.  Her 
humor  is  charming,  never  pointless,  notably  rich. 

"  But  a  man  of  Sir  Maximus's  rank  is  like  those  ante- 
diluvian  animals  whom  the  system  of  things  condemned  to 
carry  such  a  huge  bulk  that  they  really  could  not  inspect 
their  bodily  appurtenances,  and  had  no  conception  of  their 
own  tails ;  their  parasites  doubtless  had  a  merry  time  of  it, 
and  often  did  extremely  well  when  the  high-bred  Saurian 
himself  was  ill  at  ease." 

"Arthur  Donnithorne  was  moving  about  his  sleeping- 
room,  seeing  his  well-looking  British  person  reflected  in  the 
old-fashioned  mirrors,  and  stared  at,  from  a  dingy  olive- 
green  piece  of  tapestry,  by  Pharaoh's  daughter  and  her 
maidens,  who  ought  to  have  been  minding  the  infant 
Moses." 

You  appreciate  the  many  clever  things  wdiich  she 


70  HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 

Bays,  and  you  are  made  certain  that  she  appreciates 
them  herself : 

"  '  Sharp  !  Yes  ;  her  tongue  is  like  a  new-set  razor. 
She's  quite  original  in  her  talk,  too  ;  one  of  those  untaught 
wits  that  help  to  stock  a  country  with  proverbs.  I  told  you 
that  capita]  thing  I  heard  her  say  about  Craig — that  he  was 
like  a  cock  who  thought  the  sun  had  risen  to  hear  him  crow. 
Now,  that's  an  iEsop's  fable  in  a  sentence.'  " 

The  plots  of  her  stories  are  generally  well  sus- 
tained and  interesting;  would  be  more  absorbing 
were  the  reader's  enthusiasm  not  kept  in  check  by 
cooling  moral  applications.  The  action  is  logical, 
impelled  by  adequate  motives.  It  does  not,  how- 
ever, always  stop  at  the  catastrophe,  but  after  the 
final  climax  trickles  along  till  gradually  spent  and 
lost  to  view,  as  in  "Romola."  Yet  this  story,  as  a 
whole,  approaches  nearer  to  a  work  of  art  than  any 
other  of  this  author's  novels.  At  the  same  time  it 
exhibits  more  bad  taste  in  the  use  of  foreign  words 
and  phrases  than  all  the  others.  In  her  works, 
generally,  she  is  too  much  tempted  to  use  Latin  and 
Greek  terms.  In  "  Romola"  the  Italian  language  is 
the  stumbling-block.  This  is  about  the  only  im- 
portant defect  in  her  style,  which,  with  trifling  ex- 
ceptions, is  singularly  pure,  clear,  and  forcible,  alike 
free  from  obscurity,  incompleteness  of  expression, 
and  superfluous  words. 

Her  personages  are  mostly  on  one  plane — the  level 
of  common  humanity.    She  neither  ascends  to  the 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


77 


sublime  nor  descends  to  what  is  so  low,  so  vile,  or 
so  horrible  as  to  be  repulsive.  Her  wit  is  strong, 
keen,  ready,  not  "of  a  temporary  nature,  but  rather 
dealing  with  the  deeper  and  more  lasting  relations 
of  things."  You  perceive  that  if  she  be  not  an  artist 
she  rarely  or  never  transcends  the  limits  of  art;  that 
she  understands  what  is  truly  pathetic;  that  she  finds 
great  pleasure  in  bringing  good  to  light;  that  she 
has  deep  and  wide  religious  feeling;  that  she  knows 
and  loves  gentle  and  careful  housewifely  duties;  that 
she  believes  and  teaches  "that  life  to  be  the  highest 
which  is  a  conscious  and  voluntary  sacrifice."  You 
feel  that  she  is  a  philosopher,  a  philanthropist,  a 
great  writer;  you  are  not  assured  that  she  is  one  of 
the  greatest  novelists. 


78  HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


A  NOVELIST  WHO  MEANS  BUSINESS. 

A  famous  writer  asserts  that  public  taste  in  Eng- 
land commends  great  circumspection  to  the  novelist, 
saying  to  him:  "Be  moral.  All  your  novels  must 
be  such  as  may  be  read  by  young  girls.  We  are 
practical  minds,  and  we  would  not  have  literature 
corrupt  practical  life.  We  believe  in  family  life, 
and  we  would  not  have  literature  paint  the  passions 
which  attack  family  life.  We  are  Protestants,  and 
have  preserved  something  of  the  severity  of  our 
fathers  against  enjoyment  and  passions.  Among 
these,  love  is  the  worst.  Beware  against  resembling 
in  this  respect  the  most  illustrious  of  our  neighbors. 
Love  is  the  hero  of  George  Sand's  novels.  Married 
or  not,  she  thinks  it  beautiful,  holy,  sublime  in  itself; 
and  she  says  so.  Don't  believe  this;  and  if  you  do, 
don't  say  it.  George  Sand  makes  us  desire  to  be  in 
love ;  do  you  make  us  desire  to  be  married." 

These  being  the  sentiments  of  educated  people  in 
English  society,  we  can  understand  how  it  is  that 
Anthony  Trollope  is  one  of  the  most  popular  of 
English  novelists.  He  writes  as  if  such  canons  of 
taste  and  morality  were  always  in  his  mind.  Mar- 
riage, with  money  enough  on  the  one  side  or  the 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


79 


other  to  make  life  easy,  sleek,  and  respectable,  luxu- 
rious likewise  according  to  the  notions  of  men  and 
women  of  culture  and  refinement,  is  that  for  which 
his  heroes  and  heroines,  for  the  most  part,  are  made. 
They  are  not  mercenary.  The  farthest  from  it. 
Gold  and  silver  and  precious  stones  are  as  dust  in 
the  balance,  almost  an  offence  in  their  nostrils.  They 
cannot  be  forced  to  marry  for  money.  The  differ- 
ence between  nothing  on  the  one  part  and  uncounted 
wealth  on  the  other  is  no  bar  to  a  match.  Magna- 
nimity cannot  perceive  such  an  obstacle.  According 
to  this  author's  own  pet  phrase,  "Love  is  lord  of  all 
and  it  is  that  love  which  always  ends  in  marriage. 
When  either  the  lover  or  the  sweetheart  has  this  un- 
told wealth  he  brings^  on  the  wedding  without  taking 
the  trouble  to  devise  a  fortune  to  either.  When  both 
are  poor,  he  works  out  an  inheritance  for  one  or  the 
other;  and  on  the  uncertainty  whether  this  benevo- 
lent and  plainly  manifested  purpose  will  be  achieved 
hangs  much  of  the  reader's  interest.  Such  magna- 
nimity is  admirable.  It  is  reasonable  and  right. 
There  should  be  no  marriage  where  it  does  not  exist. 
But  it  is  uncommon  nowadays ;  and  in  so  far  as  it  is 
uncommon  in  real  life,  it  is  in  a  fictitious  personage 
ideal.  And  the  author's  use  of  it  in  the  cases  men- 
tioned is  a  fair  illustration  of  the  extent  to  which  he 
draws  on  ideality  in  the  formation  of  his  characters. 
In  the  main  these  are  very  practical,  and  not  so  far 
removed  from  the  commonplace  in  their  respective 
ranks  as  to  excite  astonishment. 


80 


110  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


Within  such  limits  comparatively  little  imagina- 
tion is  required  to  make  a  consistent  and  probable 
story.  Coupled  with  an  excessive  love  of  analyzing 
and  expounding  character,  Mr.  Trollope  possesses  no 
mean  degree  of  inventive  and  logical  power.  The 
comedy  grows  out  of  this  very  development  of  char- 
acter. The  incidents  related  which  go  to  make  up 
the  story  proceed  in  probable,  not  to  say  necessary, 
sequence  from  the  premises  on  which  the  narrative  is 
founded.  The  novel  is  an  argument.  Each  scene 
is  the  natural  consequence  of  some  that  have  pre- 
ceded it.  Neither  logical  nor  material  probability  is 
violated.  Hence  the  reader  is  never  shocked,  never 
greatly  disturbed.  His  pleasure  is  tranquil,  equable, 
hearty.  k 

Indeed,  this  writer's  imagination  appears  not  to  be 
excessive.  He  seems  rather  to  copy  than  to  create ; 
to  make  books  as  a  business  rather  than  from  the 
imperious  necessity  of  overwhelming  inspiration.  He 
observes  carefully,  and  can  clearly  describe  what  he 
sees ;  cares  little  for  the  beauties  of  nature  or  for 
nature  herself,  but  loves  the  comforts,  elegancies,  and 
refinements  of  wealthy  and  well-bred  people ;  esteems 
English  gentlefolk,  but  finds  no  charm  in  low  life ; 
cannot  well  take  the  measure  of  or  depict  an  eccentric 
character ;  has  no  affection  for  villains,  but  steals  out 
of  their  company  as  quickly  as  possible. 

As  a  business  man  he  seems  to  have  excellent 
judgment  and  much  skill.  He  has  studied  the 
market.    lie  has  discovered  what  the  largest  public 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


81 


taste  demands.  He  makes  his  goods  to  suit  it. 
Probably  in  doing  this  he  has  not  violently  to  eurb 
the  mighty  impulses  of  poetic  genius ;  nor  is  he  forced 
to  constrain  his  own  inclination.  He  likes  morality; 
does  not  desire  to  feel  overpowering  emotions ;  loves 
the  tone,  temper,  and  manner  of  the  British  public ; 
will  not  "  separate  himself  from  his  conscience,  and 
lose  sight  of  the  practical/7  He  has  said  to  himself, 
"Do  not  skim  over  your  subject,  lay  stress  upon  it  ; 
do  not  pass  over  it  lightly,  impress  it.  Reckon  also 
that  your  hearers  are  practical  minds,  lovers  of  the 
useful ;  that  they  come  here  to  be  taught ;  that  you 
owe  them  solid  truths ;  that  their  common  sense, 
somewhat  contracted,  does  not  fall  in  with  hazardous 
extemporizations  or  doubtful  hints ;  that  they  de- 
mand worked-out  refutations  and  complete  explana- 
tions ;  and  that,  if  they  have  paid  to  come  in,  it  was 
to  hear  advice  which  they  might  apply,  and  satire 
founded  on  proof/7  And  so,  to  satisfy  at  the  same 
time  his  conscience  and  his  patrons,  he  gives  ex- 
planations, refutations,  demonstrations  almost  with- 
out limit  over  and  over  again.  Not  only  his  own, 
but  the  consciences  of  his  personages  also,  must  be 
void  of  offence  or  persuaded  into  acquiescence.  His 
characters  carry  on  with  themselves  sound  or  sophis- 
tical reasoning,  according  to  circumstances  and  in- 
clination, to  an  extent  and  degree  of  skill  in  minute 
self-examination  that  would  do  credit  to  the  pupils 
in  a  school  of  metaphysics.  Few  of  them  know 
whether  they  are  really  in  love  or  not  till  they 

8  ,  » 


82 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


have  reasonably  and  coolly  examined  the  question 
on  all  sides.  They  are,  indeed,  uncommonly  reason- 
able creatures;  common  creatures  idealized  in  this 
direction. 

Only  by  an  occasional  indifference  to  the  rules  of 
English  grammar  does  the  author  show  that  even  his 
conscience  has  been  seared  in  spots : 

"  What  would  be  the  feelings  of  such  a  woman  as  her." 
"  They  had  become  grander  people  than  him." 
"  There  are  things  much  sweeter  than  them." 
"  No  one  knows  him  but  I." 
"  To  such  a  one  as  me." 

"  Instructions  which  no  one  but  he  himself  could  give  to 
the  counsellor." 

"A  man  believed  to  be  him." 

Such  errors  as  are  set  forth  in  these  citations  are 
far  too  common  in  Mr.  Trol lope's  works  to  permit 
the  supposition  that  they  are  accidental.  To  call 
them  inexcusable  is  to  characterize  them  mildly. 
Possibly  with  a  purpose  to  make  his  style  appear 
homely  and  strong,  he  not  unfrequently  makes  use, 
in  his  own  person,  of  phrases  far  from  elegant.  Let 
one  illustration  suffice.  In  describing  a  very  solemn 
scene,  he  says, — 

"  When  Sir  Peregrine  asked  her  whether  he  should  seat 
her  on  the  sofa,  she  slowly  picked  herself  up,  and,  with  her 
head  still  crouching  toward  the  ground,  placed  herself  where 
she  before  had  been  sitting." 

It  would  appear  that,  unconsciously  or  otherwise, 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


8P> 


he  permits  himself  to  copy  the  style  too  often  indulged 
in  by  reporters.    For  instance : 

"  It  was  Mr.  Palliser's  hobby,  and  he  was  gratified  at 
having  this  further  opportunity  of  ventilating  it." 

But  it  would  be  unfair,  even  by  implication,  to 
accuse  a  reporter  of  writing  such  a  sentence  as  the 
following : 

"  It  was  an  Alderney  cow,  and  any  man  or  women  at 
all  understanding  in  cows  would  at  once  have  perceived  that 
this  cow  was  perfect  in  her  kind." 

In  frequent  and  inelegant  use  of  the  weak  and 
utterly  indefinite  word  "one,"  instead  of  some  strong 
definite  noun  or  pronoun,  Mr.  Trollope  successfully 
competes  with  many  rivals.  The  manner  in  which 
he  and  his  characters  employ  this  despicable  substi- 
tute may  be  seen  from  a  few  examples : 

"  If  one  were  called  upon  for  advice,  one  would  think  so 
much  before  one  spoke." 

"  How  can  one  talk  to  one's  doctor  openly  and  confi- 
dentially when  one  looks  upon  him  as  one's  worst  enemy." 

"  It  quiets  one  for  the  day  ;  makes  one  so  much  fitter  for 
one's  daily  trials." 

The  author's  personages  are  made  to  talk  in  a 
style  quite  as  common,  not  to  say  low,  as  that  to 
which  he  too  often  falls  in  writing,  even  though 
they  be  the  great  ones  of  the  earth,  the  well  bred, 
the  educated : 


84 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


" 4  And  then  the  schemes  which  he  tried  on  with  the 

bishop,'  said  Mrs.  Proudie." 

Mrs.  Proudie  was  the  bishop's  wife. 

" '  The  bishop  was  too  many  for  him,'  suggested  Mrs. 
Harold  Smith,  very  maliciously." 

Mrs.  Harold  Smith  was  the  wife  of  a  gentleman 
who  gave  lectures. 

£fc  And  then  the  lecture  was  gratis, — a  fact  which  is  always 
borne  in  mind  by  an  Englishman  when  he  comes  to  reckon 
up  and  calculate  the  way  in  which  he  is  treated.  When 
he  pays  his  money  he  takes  his  choice ;  he  may  be  impa- 
tient, or  not,  as  he  likes." 

Vulgar  and  slang  phrases  like  these  may  be  found 
upon  very  many  of  this  author's  pages.  Should  any 
one  think  that  too  much  stress  is  here  laid  upon  cor- 
rect and  elegant  style  and  language  in  works  of  fic- 
tion, especially  if  he  be  a  conscientious  Englishman, 
making  or  reading  novels  for  the  sake  of  morality 
and  instruction,  let  him  consider  that,  happily  or 
otherwise,  very  many  people  who  are  carelessly 
esteemed  persons  of  intelligence  and  cultivation  read 
very  few  books  except  works  of  fiction ;  that  novels 
constitute  almost  the  only  literature  with  which  a 
great  majority  of  those  who  are  "  fond  of  books"  are 
personally  acquainted ;  that  the  English  classics  are 
known  to  them  only  by  reputation ;  that  they  prob- 
ably could  not  confidently  name  a  single  master  of 
English  style  as  such ;  that  their  notions  of  correct 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


85 


style,  good  grammar,  and  elegant  diction  are  received 
from  writers  of  novels;  and  that  thus  the  novelist 
may  become  responsible  for  the  prevalence  of  a  vul- 
gar, coarse,  slangous  tone  of  conversation,  thought, 
and  feeling  in  what  should  be  polite  society.  A 
popular  novelist  may  show  how  good  young  women 
inevitably  marry  good  young  men,  and  have  a  plenty 
of  money ;  how  bad  young  women  do  not  marry  good 
young  men,  and,  if  they  are  very  bad,  do  not  marry 
anybody ;  how  the  good  young  men  not  only  marry 
good  young  women,  but  are  sure  to  marry  rich  ones, 
or  themselves  to  have  a  large  inheritance  as  a  reward 
for  being  good  and  getting  married  ;  and  how  the  bad 
young  men  have  a  very  bad  time  generally,  and  can 
hardly  find  a  good  young  woman  who  will  even 
listen  to  their  suits;  and  yet  he  may  do  much  injury 
to  the  taste,  tone,  and  delicacy  of  his  readers.  It  is 
possible  to  have  a  moral  conscience,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  have  no  literary  conscience.  At  any  rate 
this  is  a  fair  inference  from  the  works  of  some 
writers. 

As  has  been  intimated,  Mr.  Trollope  has  the  moral 
conscience.  He  deals  out  rewards  and  punishments, 
generally  at  least,  in  a  way  to  show  an  earnest  dispo- 
sition to  be  just.  Meek,  simple,  honest,  self-denying 
Mr.  Harding  gives  up  the  wardenship  of  the  hos- 
pital, with  all  its  emoluments,  from  a  sense  of  duty ; 
but  he  is  the  gainer,  rather  than  the  loser,  in  conse- 
quence. All  goes  well  with  him  thereafter,  and  he 
dies  at  a  good  old  age  in  the  midst  of  his  children,  by 

8* 


8G 


110  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


whom  he  lias  always  been  honored.  Archdeacon 
Grantly  is  proud,  imperious,  ambitious,  and  fails  to 
obtain  the  bishopric.  Mr.  Slope  is  mean,  dishonest, 
cunning,  unclean,  and  comes  to  grief.  Mrs.  Proud ie 
is  domineering,  greedy  of  ecclesiastical  honors,  big- 
oted, quarrelsome,  without  gentleness,  tenderness,  or 
humility,  and  is  so  dominated  and  humbled  that  her 
heart  breaks.  Eleanor  is  a  good  girl,  a  loving  and 
dutiful  daughter,  and  has  the  reward  of  being  twice 
married  :  the  first  time  to  a  rich  man  who  leaves  her 
all  his  money ;  the  second  time  to  a  scholar,  a  gen- 
tleman, and  a  dean.  Bertram  is  self-willed,  proud, 
obstinate.  Miss  AVoddington  is  like  him.  They 
both  suffer  for  years,  and  when  they  have  been  re- 
formed by  suffering  they  are  married.  Harcourt  is 
heartless,  scheming,  unscrupulous,  something  of  a 
trickster ;  he  appears  to  prosper  for  a  time,  is  sepa- 
rated from  his  wife,  and  blows  out  his  brains.  Adela 
is  sweet,  gentle,  patient,  generous,  just,  and  marries 
her  first  and  only  love.  Dr.  Thorne  is  a  man  of 
sense,  correct  conduct,  noble  instincts,  unswerving 
from  the  standard  of  right,  and  marries  a  great  heir- 
ess. Mary  Thorne  is  as  good  as  she  can  be,  inherits 
a  big  fortune,  and  marries  the  young  squire.  Frank 
Gresham  persists  in  faithful  love  to  his  poor  sweet- 
heart in  spite  of  opposition  and  temptations,  and 
finally  marries,  and  through  her  comes  into  possession 
of  the  alienated  paternal  estate.  The  De  Courcys 
are  a  bad  lot  and  fare  badly.  Augustus  Crosbie  jilts 
a  good  girl  to  marry  one  of  them,  and  fares  worse. 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


87 


John  Eames  is  sportively  unfaithful  to  the  woman 
he  adores  and  loses  her.  Lilly  Dale  persists  in  loving 
an  unworthy  suitor  and  is  married  to  no  one,  or  was 
not  when  the  last  book  came  from  the  press.  Mr. 
Crawley  is  honest  after  all,  and  his  sufferings  work 
together  for  his  good.  Grace  Crawley  marries  her 
noble-hearted  lover,  as  so  good  a  girl  should.  Made- 
line Stavely  is  an  excellent  young  woman,  and  mar- 
ries Felix  Graham,  an  excellent  young  man.  Lady 
Mason  has  redeeming  qualities,  and  is,  therefore, 
acquitted  by  the  jury  to  undergo  a  modified  and  mild 
punishment.  Lady  Laura  loves  Phineas,  but  rejects 
him  because  he  is  poor,  marries  Mr.  Kennedy  because 
he  is  rich,  leads  a  wretched  married  life,  is  separated 
from  her  husband,  continues  to  love  Phineas,  who 
long  since  ceased  to  love  her,  is  very  desolate  and 
wretched.  Madame  Max  Gaesler  is  prudent,  true, 
honorable,  and  marries  the  man  of  her  choice.  And 
so  on  through  volume  after  volume. 

It  is,  indeed,  necessary  for  the  reader  to  go  through 
many  volumes  with  different  titles  before  he  can  be 
sure  that  he  has  come  to  the  end  of  what  the  author 
has  to  say  about  any  of  his  characters.  He  seems 
never  to  cease  talking  of  them  till  they  die,  nor  even 
then  in  some  cases.  He  has  gathered  together  a 
population  in  Barsetshire  and  is  its  gossip  in  chief. 
His  personages  soon  become  old  acquaintances,  and 
the  reader  feels  that  tranquil  and  agreeable  interest 
in  learning  of  their  doings  and  sayings  that  he  does 
in  listening  to  accounts  of  love-making,  love  quar- 


88 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


rels,  domestic  unhappiness,  money  gains  and  losses 
among  his  neighbors.  This  interest  is  never  un- 
pleasantly intense  and  exciting.  The  book  can  be 
laid  aside  at  bedtime  without  intolerable  regret.  It 
does  not  rob  the  reader  of  needful  sleep,  or  tempt 
him  to  neglect  agreeable  duties.  In  this  respect, 
also,  this  writer's  works  are  harmless.  They  have 
that  degree  of  power  which  induces  attentive  perusal, 
and  keeps  the  mind  within  reach  of  their  healthful 
influences. 

Whoever  seeks  entertainment  in  Mr.  Trollope's 
writings  will  rarely  be  called  upon  to  sympathize 
with  passion,  rarely  be  subjected  to  the  fatigue  of 
strong  emotions;  will  run  no  risk  of  having  his 
judgment  unsettled  by  enthusiasm.  He  may  finish 
the  study  of  one  book  fresh,  vigorous,  ready  to  enter 
upon  that  of  another.  He  will  not  be  disturbed  or 
delighted  by  children ;  will  not  be  offended  by  close 
contact  with  very  base  or  very  humble  people ;  will 
not  be  asked  to  mourn  over  their  sorrows  with  out- 
casts ;  nor  will  his  heart  be  broken  by  the  sufferings 
of  the  very  poor  and  outwardly  degraded,  the  victims 
of  this  world's  cruel  injustice  or  of  their  own  amia- 
ble weaknesses,  in  whom  the  diviner  parts  of  men 
and  women  still  survive.  He  will  find  himself  in 
the  cultivated  society  of  Barsetshire,  or  in  other  com- 
pany equally  good.  He  will  learn  how  bishops  and 
churchmen  of  rank  think,  talk,  act.  He  will  come 
to  know  intimately  esquires,  knights,  baronets, 
barons,  viscounts,  earls,  sometimes  even  will  see  a 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


89 


duke,  and  will  hear  "the  royalty"  mentioned.  He 
will  make  acquaintances  with  attorneys,  barristers, 
judges.  He  will  hobnob  with  Cabinet  ministers, 
under  secretaries,  and  Parliamentary  whips.  He 
will  feel  himself  quite  at  home  among  students  and 
fellows  of  the  universities.  Except  on  rare  occa- 
sions he  will  be  in  the  temperate  atmosphere  of  good 
breeding,  with  nothing  but  some  bad  grammar  and 
frequent  rather  vulgar  phrases  to  disturb  his  equa- 
nimity. And  he  will  gather  much  instruction.  He 
becomes  more  or  less  expert  as  a  fox-hunter,  and 
grows  to  be  more  or  less  intimate  with  the  kennel. 
He  sees  how,  just  at  the  right  time  and  in  the  right 
place,  a  daring  rider  may  break  his  arm  and  several 
of  his  ribs.  He  is  made  aware  how  to  make  up  a 
cause  for  the  courts  of  law;  how  Mr.  ChafFenbrass 
cross-examines  a  witness;  and  how  by  a  similar 
process  Mr.  Furnival  perverts  the  truth.  He  is 
informed  as  to  the  operations  of  politics ;  knows 
the  real  motive  which  by  an  euphemism  is  called 
patriotism;  learns  how  a  leader  of  the  opposition 
may  take  the  wind  out  of  his  antagonist's  sails.  He 
becomes  familiar  with  church  matters,  perceives  that 
the  clergy  are  men.  He  discovers  that  even  great 
people  think  quite  as  much  of  money  as  of  rank. 
And  he  is  taught  a  variety  of  ways,  all  nearly  re- 
sembling each  other,  in  which  courting  may  properly 
be  done. 

Not  only  do  Mr.  Trollope's  personages  talk  much 
sound  doctrine,  but  not  unfrequently  the  author 


90 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


comes  in  his  own  character  to  enunciate  excellent 
common  sense,  and  instruct  his  readers  by  disserta- 
tions and  homilies.  Taking  up  as  a  text  something 
said  by  some  one  of  the  persons  of  the  story,  he 
preaches  his  little,  sometimes  his  rather  long,  ser- 
mons : 

" '  I  wonder  whether  you  ever  think  of  the  old  days 
when  we  used  to  be  so  happy  in  Keppel  Street?'  Ah 
me,  how  often  in  after-life,  in  those  successful  days  when 
the  battle  has  been  fought  and  won,  when  all  seems  out- 
wardly to  go  well — how  often  is  this  reference  made  to  the 
happy  days  in  Keppel  Street !  It  is  not  the  prize  that  can 
make  us  happy;  it  is  not  even  the  winning  of  the  prize, 
though  for  one  short  half-hour  of  triumph  that  is  pleasant 
enough.  The  struggle,  the  long  hot  hour  of  the  honest 
fight,  the  grinding  work — when  the  teeth  are  set,  and  the 
skin  moist  with  sweat  and  rough  with  dust,  when  all  is 
doubtful,  and  sometimes  desperate ;  when  a  man  must 
trust  to  his  own  manhood,  knowing  that  those  around  him 
trust  to  it  not  at  all — that  is  the  happy  time  of  life. 
There  is  no  human  bliss  equal  to  twelve  hours  of  work 
with  only  six  hours  in  which  to  do  it.  And  when  the  ex- 
pected pay  for  that  work  is  worse  than  doubtful,  the  inner 
satisfaction  is  so  much  the  greater.  Oh,  those  happy  days 
in  Keppel  Street,  or  it  may  be  over  in  dirty  lodgings  in  the 
Borough,  or  somewhere  near  Marylebone  workhouse — any- 
where for  a  moderate  weekly  stipend.  Those  were  to  us,  and 
now  are  to  others,  and  always  will  be  to  many,  the  happy 
days  of  life.  How  bright  was  love,  and  how  full  of  poetry  ! 
Flashes  of  wit  glanced  here  and  there,  and  how  they  came 
home  and  warmed  the  cockles  of  the  heart!    And  the 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


91 


unfrequent  bottle!  Methinks  that  wine  has  utterly  lost  its 
flavor  since  those  days.  There  is  nothing  like  it ;  long 
work,  grinding,  weary  work,  work  without  pay,  hopeless 
work ;  but  work  in  which  the  worker  trusts  himself,  be- 
lieving it  to  be  good.  Let  him,  like  Mohammed,  have  one 
other  to  believe  in  him,  and  surely  nothing  else  is  needed. 
1  Ah  me  !  I  wonder  whether  you  ever  think  of  the  old  days 
when  we  used  to  be  so  happy  in  Keppel  Street?' 

"  Nothing  makes  a  man  so  cross  as  success,  or  so  soon 
turns  a  pleasant  friend  into  a  captious  acquaintance.  Your 
successful  man  eats  too  much,  and  his  stomach  troubles 
him  ;  he  drinks  too  much,  and  his  nose  becomes  blue.  He 
wants  pleasure  and  excitement,  and  roams  about  looking  for 
satisfaction  in  places  where  no  man  ever  found  it.  He  frets 
himself  with  his  banker's  book,  and  everything  tastes  amiss 
to  him  that  has  not  on  it  the  flavor  of  gold.  The  straw  of 
an  omnibus  always  stinks;  the  linings  of  the  cabs  are 
filthy.  There  are  but  three  houses  in  London  at  which  an 
eatable  dinner  may  be  obtained.  And  yet  a  few  years  since 
how  delicious  was  that  cut  of  roast  goose  to  be  had  for  a 
shilling  at  the  eating-house  near  Golden  Square !  Mrs. 
Jones  and  Mrs.  Green,  Mrs.  Walker  and  all  the  other  mis- 
tresses, are  too  vapid  and  stupid  and  humdrum  for  endur- 
ance. The  theatres  are  as  dull  as  Lethe,  and  politics  have 
lost  their  salt.  Success  is  the  necessary  misfortune  of  life, 
but  it  is  only  to  the  very  unfortunate  that  it  comes  early." 

An  excellent  discourse,  you  will  say,  containing 
much  common  sense,  and  sounding  with  the  ring  of 
true  manliness.  But  you  will  say,  also,  that  you  do 
not  care  to  have  the  action  of  an  interesting  scene 
arrested  in  order  that  you  may  listen  to  it.   And  you 


Q2  HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 

will  say,  furthermore,  if  you  reflect  upon  it,  that  its 
introduction  into  such  a  scene  is  utterly  inartistic; 
that  such  introduction  is  inconsistent  with  the  pur- 
poses of  art ;  that  it  must  destroy  any  work  of  art, 
as  such,  in  which  it  may  appear. 

Mr.  Trollope  is,  indeed,  not  an  artist;  at  any  rate, 
not  a  good  artist.  His  business  is  to  make  books 
for  sale,  the  more  volumes  the  better.  These  books 
must  contain  an  interesting  story  in  order  that  buyers 
may  take  them.  They  serve,  also,  as  media  through 
which  the  public  may  be  made  acquainted  with  the 
author's  personal  convictions,  theories,  sentiments. 
These  are  instructive  and  they  increase  the  size  of  the 
work.  He  passes  by  no  opportunity  for  interesting 
reflections,  remarks,  essays,  dissertations.  Bertram  is 
at  Jerusalem.  He  meets  there  a  company  of  English 
tourists.  They  have  a  picnic  party  in  the  valley  of 
Jehoshaphat,  "  immediately  over  the  ashes  of  James 
the  Just."  The  occasion  thus  made  is  too  good  to 
be  lost.  The  author  must  introduce  some  remarks 
about  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  English  trav- 
ellers: 

"  None  but  Englishmen  or  Englishwomen  do  such  things 
as  this.  To  other  people  is  wanting  sufficient  pluck  for 
such  enterprises ;  is  wanting  also  a  certain  mixture  of  fun, 
honest  independence,  and  bad  taste.  Let  us  go  into  some 
church  on  the  Continent — in  Italy,  we  will  say — where  the 
walls  of  the  churches  still  boast  of  the  great  works  of  the 
great  masters.  Look  at  that  man  standing  on  the  very  altar 
steps  while  the  priest  is  saying  his  mass ;  look  at  his  gray 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


93 


shooting-coat,  his  thick  shoes,  his  wide-awake  hat  stuck 
under  one  arm  and  his  stick  under  the  other,  while  he  holds 
his  opera-glass  to  his  eyes.  How  he  shuffles  about  to  get 
the  best  point  of  sight,  quite  indifferent  as  to  clergy  or  laity  ! 
All  that  bell-ringing,  incense-flinging,  and  breast-striking  is 
nothing  to  him ;  he  has  paid  dearly  to  be  brought  thither ; 
he  has  paid  the  guide  who  is  kneeling  a  little  behind  him ; 
he  is  going  to  pay  the  sacristan  who  attends  him ;  he  is 
quite  ready  to  pay  the  priest  himself,  if  the  priest  would 
only  signify  his  wish  that  way ;  but  he  has  come  there  to 
see  that  fresco,  and  see  it  he  will, — respecting  that  he  will 
soon  know  more  than  either  the  priest  or  his  worshippers. 
Perhaps  some  servant  of  the  Church,  coming  to  him  with 
submissive,  almost  suppliant  gesture,  begs  him  to  step  back 
just  for  one  moment.  The  lover  of  art  glares  at  him  with 
insulted  look,  and  hardly  deigns  to  notice  him  further  ;  he 
merely  turns  his  eye  to  his  Murray,  puts  his  hat  down  on  the 
altar-step,  and  goes  on  studying  his  subject.  All  the  world 
— German,  Frenchman,  Italian,  Spaniard — all  men  of  all 
nations  know  that  that  ugly  gray  shooting-coat  must  con- 
tain an  Englishman.  He  cares  for  no  one.  If  any  one  up- 
sets him,  he  can  do  much  toward  righting  himself ;  and  if 
more  be  wanted  has  he  not  Lord  Malmesbury  or  Lord  Cla- 
rendon at  his  back  ?  But  what  would  this  Englishman  say 
if  his  place  of  worship  were  disturbed  by  some  wandering 
Italian  ?" 

Very  just,  you  will  say;  a  truthful  description, 
certainly ;  well  worthy  to  take  a  place  in  the  corre- 
spondence of  a  newspaper  or  a  book  of  travels.  But 
in  the  mean  time  the  picnic  is  waiting.  Such  inter- 
polations are  of  very  frequent  occurrence. 

9 


D4 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


Nor  is  it  in  this  respect  alone  that  this  author  sins 
against  art,  retards  the  action  and  dulls  the  interest 
of  his  stories.  He  introduces  too  many  characters, 
many  of  them  mere  passing  acquaintances,  who  serve 
only  to  distract  attention  from  the  general  subject 
of  thought.  Sometimes  a  counterplot  and  story  run 
parallel  with  the  principal  narrative,  yet  have  no 
necessary  connection  with  and  no  effect  upon  it ;  as, 
for  instance,  in  "  The  Last  Chronicle  of  Barset." 
Here  Lilly  Dale,  the  loves  of  John  Eames,  Mrs. 
Dobbs  Broughton  and  her  friends,  Mr.  Crosbie,  the 
Van  Sievers,  Dalrymple,  Miss  Desmolines,  and  sev- 
eral other  personages  act  a  comedy  entirely  independ- 
ent of  the  principal  play.  It  would  be  easy  to  sepa- 
rate entirely  the  two  stories,  with  advantage  to  each. 
Not  unfrequently  the  author  takes  some  of  his  char- 
acters quite  out  of  the  limits  which  should  bound  his 
plan,  with  no  other  conceivable  purpose  or  result  than 
to  make  them  talk  with  a  deaf  old  woman  in  order 
to  show  what  funny  mistakes  she  can  make,  how  she 
uses  her  ear-trumpet,  and  how  hard  it  is  to  converse 
with  her.  In  this  way  he  easily  makes  what  in  a 
variety  show  would  be  called  a  character  sketch,  and 
forces  into  his  drama  a  little  comedy.  One  example 
of  this  fault  may  be  found  in  "  The  Bertrams," 
where  the  author  sends  Miss  Todd  and  Ad  el  a  to  visit 
Mrs.  Leake.  Mrs.  Leake  appears  nowhere  else  in  the 
story,  has  absolutely  nothing  to  do  with  the  plot,  nor 
does  this  visit  in  any  way  affect  the  action.  But  Mrs. 
Leake  is  deaf,  and  Mr.  Trollope  likes  deaf  women. 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


95 


This  gentleman  has  indeed  little  conception  of 
form  ;  knows  little  of  color.  He  is  rather  a  weaver 
than  a  painter  or  a  sculptor.  He  weaves  fabrics  rea- 
sonably strong,  of  an  equal  texture,  made  up  for  the 
most  part  of  neutral  tints,  well  calculated  to  do  good 
service.  It  is  for  this  purpose  that  they  are  made; 
and  this  purpose  seems  to  be  always  in  the  author's 
mind.  "  This  has  its  advantages  no  doubt ;  art 
suffers  by  it  if  the  public  gains.  Though  your  char- 
acters give  the  best  examples,  your  works  will  be 
of  less  value.  No  matter ;  you  may  console  yourself 
with  the  thought  that  you  are  moral.  Your  lovers 
will  be  uninteresting ;  for  the  only  interest  natural  to 
their  age  is  the  violence  of  passion,  and  you  cannot 
paint  passion." 

The  characters  drawn  by  Mr.  Trollope  are  gen- 
erally distinct  individuals.  The  reader  feels  that  he 
has  met  and  known  such  people.  They  never  vio- 
late probability,  or  such  consistency  as  is  common 
among  mankind.  Their  acts  have  sufficient  motives, 
and  the  author  never  fails  to  make  these  motives 
known.  Indeed,  the  reader  who  shall  carefully  study 
all  the  analyses  furnished  for  the  enlightenment  of 
his  understanding,  and  not  unfrequently  repeated 
several  times  in  the  limits  of  one  book,  will  probably 
know  more  of  their  incentives  than  the  actors  them- 
selves. Although  choosing  to  depict  society  in  which 
the  nobility  and  gentry  mingle  freely,  as  an  author 
Mr.  Trollope  is  plainly  not  a  snob.  He  values  a 
man  for  his  manhood,  not  for  his  title  or  social  rank. 


96 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


Some  of  his  sharpest  satire  is  aimed  at  members  of 
the  aristocracy. 

His  books  are  altogether  wholesome,  contain  much 
very  pleasant  entertainment,  and  not  a  little  good 
instruction.  He  loves  domestic  scenes,  British  homes, 
all  that  is  most  characteristic  in  the  most  agreeable 
English  life.  So  well  has  he  portrayed  the  society 
in  which  he  finds  such  pleasure,  notwithstanding 
literary  and  artistic  faults,  that  his  readers  will  sym- 
pathize with  him  when  he  says, — 

"  To  me  Barset  has  been  a  real  county,  and  its  city  a 
real  city,  and  the  spires  and  towers  have  been  before  my 
eyes,  and  the  voices  of  the  people  are  thrown  to  my  ears 
and  the  pavements  of  the  city  ways  are  familiar  to  my 
footsteps." 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


97 


A  CRUDE  NOVELIST. 

Rhoda  Broughton"  holds  an  acknowledged  place 
as  a  writer  of  English  novels ;  her  books  find  ready 
publishers  and  mady  readers.  These  facts  indicate 
that  something  in  these  works  pleases  lovers  of  fic- 
tion.  What  this  something  is  we  shall  try  to  discover. 

Time  was  when  English  readers,  as  well  as  writers, 
held  some  acquaintance  with  English  grammar,  loved 
correct  and  elegant  diction,  would  not  tolerate  sloven- 
liness and  blunder,  when  a  good  and  pure  style  was 
a  passport  to  admiration  and  popularity.  But  that 
time  seems  to  have  passed  away.  The  boasted  gen- 
eral diffusion  of  learning  has  made  a  practical  knowl- 
edge of  English  grammar  a  useless,  and  therefore  a 
neglected  accomplishment;  has  shown  that  a  fair 
style  and  choice  diction  are  matters  of  study  or  care, 
or  both,  and  therefore  unworthy  the  attention  of 
genius.  At  any  rate  some  novelists  seem  to  thrive 
and  grow  rich  through,  or  spite  of,  the  neglect  of 
these  things.  With  the  greater  portion  of  readers 
the  only  question  is  whether  the  story  be  interesting. 
To  be  interesting  it  must  be  exciting.  To  be  ex- 
citing it  must  be  vehement ;  it  must  arouse  the 
stronger,  that  is,  the  coarser  impulses  and  sympa- 

9* 


98 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


fchies  of  mankind.  Horror  is  a  sharper  and  more 
sickening  sensation  than  terror;  therefore  to  awaken 
horror  is  deemed  better  than  to  excite  terror.  True, 
the  canons  of  art  forbid  the  appearance  of  anything 
horrible.  But  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  art;  we 
arc  guided  by  inspiration.  Licentious  passions  are 
more  violent  than  well-tempered  love  or  chaste  affec- 
tions ;  therefore  licentious  passions  must  be  set  free, 
love  unbridled,  and  affections  perverted.  A  new 
word,  a  word  erroneously  formed,  a  French  phrase, 
a  German  sentence,  an  Italian  proverb,  a  Spanish 
couplet,  a  Latin  verse,  a  Greek  term,  will  attract 
more  attention  than  any  good  English  noun,  verb, 
or  particle;  therefore  let  the  foreign  expressions  be 
used  whenever  an  opportunity  can  be  found  or  made. 
Few  readers  can  understand  their  meaning;  hence 
the  author  will  have  the  credit  of  learning  and  pro- 
fundity. Such  alien  helps  are  easily  obtained.  Any 
friendly  sophomore  can  furnish  them  to  order.  The 
pedantry  is  cheap,  like  the  literature.  And  why 
should  not  the  literature  be  plentiful  and  cheap  when, 
as  in  restaurants  where  viands  are  sold  at  low  prices, 
the  cold  bits  of  yesterday  may  make  the  hash  of  to- 
day, and  the  residue  of  that  furnish  the  mince-pie  for 
to-morrow  ?  The  name  is  changed,  the  dish  is  called 
new,  the  substance  is  essentially  the  same. 

If  the  style  is  the  woman,  as  well  as  the  man, 
Rhoda  Broughton  must  be  a  somewhat  flippant,  very 
bright  and  vivacious,  rather  irreverent,  daring,  self- 
sufficient,  untutored  person,  possessing  uncommon 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


99 


natural  talent,  and  power  which  has  never  been 
mastered  or  disciplined ;  whose  taste  is,  in  some 
respects,  irremediably  bad,  or  has  never  received  any 
proper  cultivation.  She  must  be  like  a  neglected 
garden  with  a  rich  soil,  where  flowers  and  weeds 
grow  rankly  together,  and  where  the  crops  repeat 
themselves  rapidly,  with  little  variation  in  shape, 
color,  or  quality.  She-  has  a  feverish  anxiety  to 
arrest  attention.  Many  persons  who  may  never 
have  read  her  books  have  doubtless  noticed  their 
advertised  titles,  "  Red  as  a  Rose  is  She,"  "  Cometh 
up  as  a  Flower/'  "  Not  Wisely,  but  too  Well/7 
"Good-by,  Sweetheart." 

The  peculiarity  of  title  is  not  the  only  thing  in 
which  these  works  resemble  each  other.  They  are 
all  made  after  one  general  plan,  perhaps  not  pur- 
posely, probably  not  even  consciously.  They  are  all 
the  fruits  of  one  conception,  and  are  as  much  alike 
as  if  they  had  been  produced  at  one  birth.  Evi- 
dently they  followed  each  other  rapidly  into  the 
world.  The  indiscretions  of  the  author  were  too 
swiftly  repeated.  The  heroines  are  all  "red  as  a 
rose that  is  to  say,  they  all  have  a  most  uncom- 
fortable propensity  to  blush  violently  under  any  and 
all  circumstances,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  for 
the  most  part  they  are  rather  hoidenish,  and  not  at 
all  timid,  very  reckless  in  fact.  These  heroines  fall 
desperately  in  love  at  first  sight  with  some  uncom- 
monly big  fellow,  who  either  lies  on  the  ground  at 
the  girl's  feet,  making  a  mould  of  his  gigantic  pro- 


100 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


portions  in  the  soft  herbage,  while  he  " gazes  up  at" 
her;  or  he  stands  by  her  side  while  she  " gazes  up 
at"  him.  Sometimes  the  girls  "  beam  up  at,"  often 
"  smile  up  at"  the  lovers,  rarely,  perhaps  never,  look 
at  them.  One  of  these  heroines,  Kate  Chester  by 
name,  seems  to  be  a  reservoir  of  "  green  light,"  which 
she  "  shoots  out  of"  her  "  green  eyes"  with  magical 
effects.  "And  she  shoots  out  green  light  of  intoxi- 
cation and  mischief  from  under  the  shady  black  hat." 
From  which  it  would  appear  that  she  carried  intoxi- 
cation under  that  hat  as  many  a  fellow  carries  a  brick. 

These  big  lovers  are  generally  strong,  rude  men, 
whose  passions  have  had  free  scope  and  become  pow- 
erful. They  are  devourers  of  women,  take  at  least 
half  a  dozen  on  toast  for  breakfast  every  morning 
or  night;  have  probably  done  so  habitually  till  they 
meet  the  heroine,  who,  of  course,  is  the  bonne  bouche. 
These  heroines,  for  the  most  part,  are  predisposed  to 
consumption.  At  any  rate  they  are  likely  to  become 
consumptive,  are  brought  very  low,  generally  die, 
but  not  always.  Nothing  can  kill  the  heroes  but  an 
accident;  they  are  such  big,  hearty  fellows.  Of 
course,  the  suggested  contrast  is  charming.  We 
weary  of  its  constant  repetition,  however.  We  do 
not  care,  under  different  titles,  to  buy  the  same  pic- 
ture over  and  over  again.  We  begin  to  desire  a  big 
sweetheart  and  a  little  lover ;  to  see  her  bend  him 
over  her  knee  when  he  is  bad,  toss  him  up  and  down 
in  her  hands,  and  talk  to  him  of  his  footie-tooties 
when  he  is  good ;  or  anything  by  way  of  a  change. 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


101 


As  these  two  characters,  hero  and  heroine,  very 
slightly  varied,  appear  in  all  Miss  Broughton's  earlier 
works,  so  do  their  foils.  An  unlucky,  manly,  poor 
soldier  lover,  who  goes  away  with  his  troop  to  some 
outlandish  place  and  is  killed,  or  fevered  and  plagued 
to  death,  like  Robert  Brandon  in  "Red  as  a  Rose 
is  She,"  and  Dick  McGregor  in  "  Cometh  up  as  a 
Flower ;"  a  quiet,  well-bred,  unfeeling,  selfish,  calcu- 
lating, beautiful  woman  of  the  world,  given  to 
hypocritical  intrigues  against  the  heroine,  like  Miss 
Blessington  in  "  Red  as  a  Rose,"  etc.,  and  Sister 
Dolly  in  "  Cometh  up,"  etc.  Even  the  more  sub- 
ordinate passages  in  the  different  books  are  counter- 
parts of  each  other.  The  old  Puritan  mother  with 
her  Calvinistic  talk,  reading  or  pretending  to  read, 
and  recommending  to  others  works  on  hell-fire  and 
eternal  damnation,  with  titles  frightful  enough  to 
raise  the  hair  on  any  young  girl's  head,  appears  in 
"  Red  as  a  Rose  is  She,"  as  Mrs.  Brandon,  and  as 
Lady  Lancaster  in  "  Cometh  up  as  a  Flower."  Not 
even  the  old  dog  which  has  a  part  in  each  work  is 
spared.  He,  too,  must  die  over  and  over,  and  each 
time  licking  somebody's  hand. 

Now,  this  repetition  of  fictitious  action  and  per- 
sonages indicates  certainly  that  the  author  writes  too 
much,  produces  books  too  rapidly;  possibly,  also, 
that  the  vein  from  which  she  mines  her  materials  is 
very  narrow,  and  scanty  in  varieties.  These  faults, 
or  deficiencies,  however,  are  of  a  somewhat  negative 
kind,  and  need  cause  no  feeling  of  irritation ;  a 


102 


JTOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME. 


remark  which  cannot  be  justly  applied  to  the  manner 
in  which  much  of  her  work  is  done,  the  almost  con- 
stant straining  for  effect,  notable  contempt  for  the 
rules  of  grammar  and  taste,  and  many  affectations. 

Observe,  for  instance,  how  "  one"  is  made  to  do 
the  work  of  all  kinds  of  nouns  and  pronouns,  and 
how  awkwardly  the  task  is  achieved : 

"  Bending  down  one's  head  over  one's  work  sends  all  the 
blood  in  one's  body  into  it." 

"  Causing  Miss  Craven  to  give  one  of  those  starts  that 
make  one  feel  as  if  one  literally  jumped  out  of  one's  skin, 
and  fill  one  with  ungodly  wrath  against  the  occasion  of 
them." 

"  I  think  that  one's  parents  ought  to  apologize  to  one  for 
bringing  one,  without  asking  one's  leave,  into  such  a  disa- 
greeable place  as  this  world  is." 

"  I  hate  going  back  the  same  way  one  came,  it  shows 
such  a  want  of  invention." 

"  It  strikes  me  as  one  of  the  few  instances  in  which  one's 
experience  tallies  with  what  one  reads  in  novels,  the  awk- 
ward knack  people  have  of  interrupting  one  at  the  wrong 
moment." 

"  One  cannot  fancy  the  world  without  one,  can  one  ?  One 
knows  that,  not  long  ago,  there  was,  and  not  long  hence 
there  ivill  be,  no  /;  but  one  cannot  realize  it !" 

"I'd  rather  never  see  a  human  face  all  the  year  round, 
except  my  own,  of  course.  It's  always  pleasant  to  see  that, 
looking  at  one  in  the  glass — always  except  wheu  one's  nose 
gets  red." 


Further  citations  to  illustrate  this  all -pervading, 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


103 


inexcusable,  and  offensive  fault  would  be  tedious. 
Quite  as  inexcusable  and  offensive  is  the  author's 
mode  of  forming  comparatives  and  superlatives : 
" — replies  Miss  Blessington,  rather  sharplier  than  is 
her  wont;"  "he  only  says  in  a  kind,  anxious  voice, 
and  plainlier  still  with  kind,  anxious  eyes ;"  "  and 
leaning  closelier  over  her ;"  "  and  falls  to  weeping 
sorelier  than  ever;"  "it  is  in  silence  that  a  good, 
brave  man  meetliest  takes  his  death-blow  ;"  "  heav- 
ing up  and  down  rather  quicklier  than  usual ;"  "  and 
rarelier  still  read  any  reviews ;"  "  as  they  are  jogging 
a  little  brisklier  than  usual ;"  "  gathering  her  wraps 
closelier  about  her;"  "on  shoulders  that  mayhap 
may  bear  it  stoutlier ;"  "  remembering  how  much 
deeplier  she  had  sinned ;"  "  for  he  can  see  plainlier 
now ;"  "  pursuing  the  hotlier  the  more ;"  "  shines 
also  hotlier." 

Even  when  her  superlatives  are  formed  with  some 
reference  to  the  usages  of  the  English  language  they 
are  generally  very  rough  and  inelegant :  "  the  penni- 
lessest,  improvidentest,  happiest  pair  of  sweethearts 
in  Great  Britain."  "  The  old  woman  of  exaltedest 
rank." 

Such  licenses,  however,  are  not  enough  for  the 
free  spirit  of  this  author.  Familiar  or  strange  Eng- 
lish words,  even  when  distorted  into  new  shapes,  do 
not  suffice  to  express  her  meaning.  She  must  use 
terms  unknown  to  the  best  dictionary  makers ;  as, 
for  instance,  "  havering,"  "  chivies,"  used  as  a  verb, 
and  "  writhen  :"  "  Dolly  on  a  dark  oak  settle  with  a 


104  HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


carved  and  writhen  back."  Liberty  to  make  words 
that  look  like  English  is,  however,  not  enough  for 
her  ambition.  French  and  Latin  commonplaces 
and  Greek  terms,  sometimes  printed  in  Greek  letters, 
are  forced  awkwardly  to  do  duty  for  some  simple 
and  elegant  English  phrase.  Occasionally  she  is 
kind  enough  to  translate  the  Greek  terms  after  using 
them,  but  not  always :  "  to  my  Philon  Hetor,  or  dear 
heart."  "  I  don't  think  he  got  any  kvdos  from  either 
of  his  dear  friends  for  his  impartiality."  The  use 
of  the  Latin  and  French  phrases  would  be  more 
excusable,  were  they  not  so  evidently  dragged  in  by 
the  collar,  as  it  were,  when  no  possible  room  for  their 
appearance  can  be  perceived,  except  that  the  author 
may  display  her  possessions.  To  tell  the  truth  these 
possessions  look  not  only  thoroughly  out  of  place, 
but  very  much  as  if  they  were  borrowed  for  the 
occasion. 

Such  faults  as  those  indicated  are  pardonable  only 
when  committed  by  a  very  young  author.  They  are, 
indeed,  indications  of  youthfulness  and  inexperience. 
In  Miss  B  rough  ton's  books  are  other  signs  of  juven- 
ility. Among  them  are  plain  efforts  to  strike  the 
reader,  impatience  of  judicious  restraints,  a  wasteful 
use  of  power,  an  over-fondness  for  things  that  are 
themselves  glowing  and  impressive.  She  likes  to 
make  "  men's  hot  blood  surge ;"  to  describe  her 
heroines  in  the  hero's  arms  while  "  he  is  kissing  her 
repeatedly,"  or  laying  "  his  lips  upon  the  blossom 
of  her  sweet  mouth ;"  to  tell  how  "  he  wrapped  his 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


105 


arms  around  her  as  she  stood  before  him,  tighter, 
tighter,  and  bent  down  his  head  from  its  stately 
height  to  her  small,  uplifted  face,  nearer,  nearer,  till 
their  lips  met  and  were  joined  in  a  wedlock  so  fast, 
so  long-enduring,  so  firm,  that  it  seemed  as  if  they 
never  could  be  divorced  again." 

She  will  strain  a  point  to  show  that  she  has  no 
false  modesty :  rather  enjoys  shocking  very  delicate 
people;  detests  all  affectations  and  shams  except 
those  which  she  practises  herself,  suoh,  for  instance, 
as  her  pretentious  display  of  cheap  acquaintance  with 
different  lano-ua^es ;  seems  to  delight  in  death  as  a 
subject  of  apostrophe  and  discussion,  because  death  is 
a  very  terrible  thing  to  most  readers;  in  the  grave, 
corruption,  mould,  dust,  worms,  "  lobbies  and  wood- 
lice,"  also,  because  they  are  objects  from  which  the 
ordinary  man  recoils,  and  which  thus  can  produce  a 
powerful  sensation  ;  therefore  she  exposes  them,  and 
not  unfrequently  almost  to  the  point  of  disgust.  She 
does  not  shrink  from  asking  and  suggesting  many 
theological  questions  not  at  all  new,  and  writing 
many  common  enough  platitudes  about  them ; 
shrinks  not  either  from  mentioning  sacred  names 
and  speaking  of  sacred  things  in  a  very  light  and 
flippant  manner,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  She  not  only 
seems  to  defy  all  ordinary  constraints,  but  to  aim  at 
a  constant  demonstration  of  her  wild  freedom. 

All  this  is  evidence  of  a  certain  kind  of  rude 
strength,  if  you  please.  Indeed,  there  can  be  no 
question   that,  within  certain  narrow  limits,  this 

10 


106 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


author  possesses  uncommon  natural  powers.  She 
indistinctively  likes  virility,  wants  her  admirers  to 
be  men,  and  detests  sentimental  creatures,  as  is 
shown  by  her  use  of  big  lovers,  and  in  other  ways. 
J  br  heroines  also  are  strong  after  their  kind,  though 
their  kind  is  not  generally  well  bred  or  delicate. 
They  are  models  which  no  man  would  wish  his  sis- 
ters, no  mother  her  daughters  to  copy.  But  to  the 
reader  who  does  not  belong  to  their  family,  whom 
they  can  in  no  way  mortify  and  shame  by  their 
vagaries,  they  are  fresh,  interesting,  full  of  life, 
strong  if  not  gentle.  They  are,  for  the  most  part, 
very  clearly  and  consistently  delineated,  and  have  a 
marked,  positive  individuality.  The  characters  of 
the  men,  also,  are  fairly  well  defined,  but  not  so 
distinctly  as  are  those  of  the  women.  The  lover  and 
his  sweetheart  are  the  all-important  personages  in 
each  book ;  the  others  are  seen  somewhat  obscurely. 
The  author's  own  qualities  and  characteristics  appear 
more  naturally  in  the  women  than  in  the  men.  We 
conceive  that  in  the  following  extract  she  sketches 
herself,  to  some  extent,  at  least : 

"  It  was  to  me  a  matter  of  unfeigned  and  heart-felt 
gratulation  that  my  mother  died  in  my  infancy.  As 
often  as  I  came  in  contact  with  well-drilled  daughters, 
nestling  under  the  wing  of  a  portly  mamma,  I  hugged 
myself  on  my  freedom.  My  father  was  •  more  to  me  than 
ten  mothers.  If  my  mother  had  lived,  thought  I,  I  should 
have  been  only  second  in  his  affections ;  some  one  else 
would  have  been  nearer  his  heart  than  I — an  idea  almost 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


107 


too  bitter  to  be  contemplated.  If  I  bad  had  a  mother  I 
should  have  had  to  mend  my  gloves,  and  keep  my  hair 
tidy,  and  practice  on  the  piano,  and  be  initiated  into  the 
mysteries  of  stitching." 

Miss  Broughton  has  a  happy  knack  at  descrip- 
tions, can  write  admirably  when  she  will,  depicts 
scenes  very  graphically.  The  cleverness  in  the  use 
of  words  which  crops  out  all  through  her  books, 
makes  her  occasional  slovenliness,  her  conceits,  her 
outrages  on  the  English  language  and  on  good  taste, 
all  the  more  inexcusable.  She  loves  nature,  good, 
strong,  healthy  nature,  with  a  poet's  love,  and  can 
paint  it  with  a  poet's  pen : 

"  Morning  is  come  again.  The  sun  cannot  bear  to  be 
long  away  from  his  young  sweetheart,  the  earth,  so  he  has 
come  back  hasting,  with  royal  pomp,  with  his  crown  of 
gay  gold  beams  on  his  head,  with  his  flame-cloak  about 
his  strong  shoulders,  and  with  a  great  troop  of  light,  flaky 
clouds — each  with  a  reflex  of  his  red  smile  on  its  courtier 
face — at  his  back.  He  has  come  back  to  see  himself  in 
the  laughing  blue  eyes  of  her  seas  and  streams,  and  to  rest 
at  noontide,  like  a  sleepy  giant,  on  her  warm  green  lap. 

"  The  daily  miracle — the  miracle  that  none  can  contest, 
to  which  all  are  witness,  has  been  worked — the  resurrec- 
tion of  the  world.  And  this  resurrection  is  not  partial, 
not  limited  to  humanity,  as  that  final  one  is  toward  which 
the  eyes  of  the  Christian  church  have  been  looking  stead- 
fastly for  eighteen  centuries  and  a  half ;  but  every  beast 
and  bird  and  flower  has  shaken  off  Death's  sweet  sem- 
blance, his  gentle  counterfeit,  and  is  feeling,  in  bounding 


108 


HOW  TIIEY  STRIKE  ME, 


vein  and  rushing  sap,  the  ecstatic  bliss  of  the  mystery  of 
life.  If  we  never  slept,  we  should  not  know  the  joy  of 
waking;  if  we  never  woke,  we  should  not  know  the  joy  of 
sleep.  How,  I  marvel,  shall  we  feel  the  happiness  of 
heaven,  if  we  never  lose,  and  consequently  never  regain 
it?  The  thrushes  and  blackbirds  are  already  in  the  midst 
of  their  glees  and  madrigals  and  part  songs.  They  sing 
the  seme  songs  every  day,  so  that  they  are  quite  perfect  in 
them  ;  and  they  are  all  very  joyful  ones.  In  their  sweet 
flute  language  there  are  no  words  expressive  of  sorrow  or 
pain :  they  know  of  no  minor  key.  There  were  twenty 
roses  born  last  night,  and  the  flowers  are  all  rejoicing 
greatly.  They  are  smiling  and  whimpering  and  gossiping 
together;  the  sweet  peas,  like  pink  and  purple  butterflies, 

'  .  .  .  .  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight, 
"With  wings  of  delicate  flush  o'er  virgin  white,' 

each  half  inclined  to  hover  away  with  the  young  west  wind 
that  is  sighing  such  a  little  gentle  story  all  about  himself 
into  their  ears.  The  lambs,  grown  so  big  and  woolly  that 
one  might  almost  mistake  them  for  their  mothers,  are 
leaping  and  racirg  and  plunging  about  in  the  field  below 
the  house,  in  the  giddiness  of  youth,  unprescient  of  the 
butcher." 

Many,  indeed  most  of  the  scenes  in  which  Miss 
Broughton's  characters  appear  are  exceedingly  fresh, 
vigorous,  well  sustained,  clearly  set  forth,  life-like. 
The  language  of  her  personages  is  for  the  most  part 
terse,  vivacious,  pointed,  strong,  often  witty,  not 
unfrequently  mingled  with  popular  slang,  however, 
and  many  inelegant  expressions.    Look,  for  exam- 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


109 


pie,  at  the  picture  of  the  Brandon  family  at  Sun- 
day's dinner;  at  the  description  of  Jock's  death,  in 
"  Red  as  a  Rose  is  She  at  the  passage  between 
Lenore  and  Paul,  terminated  l>y  the  upsetting  of  the 
boat,  and  many  others  in  "Good-by,  Sweetheart." 
In  a  circumscribed  way  this  author  uses  much  dra- 
matic power ;  witness  many  of  the  scenes  in  "  Not 
Wisely  but  Too  Well."  In  the  four  books  which 
we  have  mentioned  the  author's  merits  greatly  over- 
balance her  faults,  are  as  strongly  marked,  and  give 
flattering  promise  of  superior  excellence  in  the  future 
if  she  can  be  induced  to  submit  to  certain  liberal 
rules  of  art  and  good  taste,  will  enlarge  her  scope  of 
thought,  her  variety  of  character  and  incident,  and 
be  content  to  bring  her  offspring  into  the  world  only 
at  reasonable  intervals  of  time,  and  after  suitable 
periods  of  gestation. 

This  promise  has  to  a  certain  extent  been  already 
fulfilled.  "Nancy,"  her  last  book,  is  in  some  re- 
spects superior  to  any  that  have  preceded  it  from  the 
same  source.  It  is  in  the  main  more  correctly  writ- 
ten, its  style  is  in  better  taste,  while  lacking  nothing 
of  the  freshness  and  vigor  which  in  so  great  a  degree 
characterize  her  earlier  works.  The  heroine,  who  in 
other  regards  is  well  drawn  and  reasonable  enough, 
has,  however,  one  grave  defect.  In  all  her  inter- 
course with  Frank  Musgrave  she  is  by  far  too  inno- 
cently stupid,  or  too  stupidly  innocent — incredibly 
so.  This  is  the  greatest  fault  of  the  work.  On  this 
intercourse  and  its  results  hinges  the  chief  interest 

10* 


110 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


of  the  story.  The  author  designed  to  keep  Nancy 
blameless,  and  yet  cause  her  to  excite  such  suspicions 
as  to  bring  on  the  kind  and  degree  of  trouble  dear 
to  novel-readers.  But  she  failed  to  accomplish  this 
artistically  and  well  through  want  of  skill  or  want 
of  thought.  Nancy  is  impossibly  unsuspecting  and 
unobservant.  Minor  faults  of  the  kind  with  which 
we  are  already  familiar  are  not  infrequent : 

" '  Every  one  knows  best  where  his  own  shoe  pinches,' 
I  answer  vernacularly." 

"None  but  a  God-intoxicated  man  could  tell  the  glories 
of  that  serenely  shining  and  suave  morn." 

u  Turning  his  eyes  from  his  own  face  and  fixing  them  on 
the  less  interesting  object  of  mine." 

"  Perhaps  she  may  be  stupid !  Certainly  she  is  not 
affording." 

"  She  continues,  eyeing  him  with  contemplated  candor." 
"  But  fortunately  no  one  but  I  is  listening  to  him." 
"  My  legs  ache  mostly  a  good  deal,  and  I  feel  dull  and 
drowsy  from  want  of  sleep." 

Still,  an  important  advance  has  been  attempted 
in  this  work  with  very  encouraging  success.  Miss 
Broughton  has  herself  felt  the  necessity  of  working 
a  new  vein,  of  producing  something  novel,  of  not 
continuing  to  repeat  the  same  old  story.  Sir  Roger 
is  an  admirable  personage,  a  complete  gentleman, 
thoroughly  well  drawn.  Several  of  the  subordinate 
characters  are  clearly  and  well  delineated.  The  de- 
scriptions of  the  children,  Nancy's  brothers  and 
sisters,  their  doings  and  sayings,  could  hardly  be 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


Ill 


surpassed.  Each  one  of  them  has  a  distinct,  com- 
pletely individualized,  consistent  personality.  The 
scenes  in  which  they  take  part,  and  in  fact  the 
author's  domestic  scenes,  almost  without  exception, 
are  notably  life-like. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  that  on  seme  days  the  devil  reigns 
with  a  more  potent  sway  over  people  than  on  others.  To- 
night he  has  certainly  entered  into  the  boys.  He  often 
does  a  little,  but  this  evening  he  is  holding  a  great  and 
mighty  carnival  among  them.  While  father's  strong,  hard 
voice  vibrates  in  a  loud,  dull  monotone  through  the  silent 
room,  they  are  engaged  in  a  hundred  dumb  yet  ungodly 
antics  behind  his  back. 

"  Algernon  has  thrust  his  head  far  out  between  the  rungs 
of  his  chair-back,  and  affects  to  be  unable  to  withdraw  it 
again,  making  movements  of  simulated  suffocation.  The 
Brat  is  stealthily  walking  on  his  knees  across  the  space  that 
intervenes  between  them  to  Barbara,  with  intent,  as  I  too 
well  know,  of  unseemly  pinchings.  If  father  unbuttons 
his  eyes,  or  moves  his  head  one  barleycorn,  we  are  all  dead 
men.  I  hold  my  breath  in  a  nervous  agony.  Thank 
heaven  !  the  harsh  recitation  still  flows  on  with  equable 
loud  slowness.  In  happy  ignorance  of  his  offspring's  antics, 
father  is  still  asking,  or  rather  ordering,  the  Almighty  (for 
there  is  more  of  command  than  entreaty  in  his  tone)  to 
prosper  the  High  Court  of  Parliament.  Also  the  Brat  is 
now  returning  to  his  place,  travelling  with  surprising  noise- 
less rapidity  over  the  Turkey  carpet,  dragging  his  shins  and 
his  feet  after  him.  I  draw  a  long  breath  of  relief,  and 
drop  my  hot  face  into  my  spread  hands.  My  peace,  how- 
ever, is  not  of  long  duration.    I  am  aroused  by  a  sort  of 


112 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


choking  snort  from  Tou  Tou,  who  is  beside  me — a  snort 
that  seems  compounded  of  mingled  laughter  and  pain,  and, 
looking  up,  detect  Bobby  in  the  act  of  deftly  puncturing 
one  of  her  long  bare  legs  with  a  long  brass  pin,  which  he 
has  found  straying,  after  the  vagabond  manner  of  pins,  over 
the  carpet." 

Here  follows,  very  briefly,  a  companion  sketch  : 

"  The  devil  in  the  boys  is  fairly  quiescent  to-night,  and 
our  evening  devotions  pass  over  with  tolerable  peace ;  the 
only  contretemps  being  that  the  Brat,  having  fallen  asleep, 
remains  on  his  knees  when  1  Amen'  raises  the  rest  of  the 
company  from  theirs,  and  has  to  be  privily  and  heavily 
kicked  to  save  him  from  discovery  and  ruin." 

An  equal  degree  of  cleverness  is  shown  by  the 
author  in  depicting  very  many  other  scenes.  Her 
strength,  her  Avir,  vivacity,  brilliancy,  the  great 
talents  which  she  has  so  clearly  shown,  we  gladly 
admit  and  heartily  praise.  As  before  intimated, 
they  serve  at  the  same  time  to  aggravate  and  render 
unpardonable  her  gross  faults.  If  she  will  remem- 
ber that  "art  does  not  come  by  inspiration,"  and 
that  "reading  and  writing  (do  not)  come  by  nature," 
taking  care  to  cultivate,  develop,  master  and  mani- 
fest her  rare  powers  with  propriety  and  taste,  a  very 
brilliant  future  is  before  her. 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


113 


A  GOSSIPING  NOVELIST. 

As  the  production  of  fictitious  composition  in- 
creases, the  rules  by  which  it  is  to  be  judged  should 
be  applied  with  more  and  more  severity,  and  not,  as 
seems  to  be  the  case,  with  less  and  less.  These  rules 
are  now  well  enough  understood  by  all  sagacious 
critics.  Yet  many  authors  appear  to  be  ignorant,  or, 
at  any  rate,  heedless,  of  them.  Of  these,  Mrs.  Mar- 
garet Oliphant  is  an  example.  She  holds  a  con- 
spicuous place  among  English  novelists,  though  not 
in  the  first  rank.  Her  books  have  found  much 
favor,  especially  among  writers  of  literary  notices  for 
the  newspapers  and  magazines.  How  far  she  may 
safely  be  imitated,  what  her  merits  and  demerits  may 
be,  and  what  is  her  just  rank  among  writers  of  fiction, 
more  thorough  criticism  alone  can  determine.  This 
is  especially  true  if  it  be  a  fact  that  "a  man's  genius 
is  like  a  clock  :  it  has  its  mechanism,  and  among  its 
parts  a  mainspring."  If  you  "  find  out  this  spring, 
show  how  it  communicates  movements  to  the  others, 
pursue  this  movement  from  part  to  part  down  to  the 
hands  in  which  it  ends,"  you  may  determine  the  kind 
of  work  that  it  will  do.  Whether  he  will  or  not,  the 
really  competent  critic  follows  this  process  reversed. 


114 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


From  the  action  of  the  hands  on  the  dial  lie  works 
back  to  the  mainspring,  notes  its  motive  power  and 
the  manner  in  which  it  is  regulated.  To  study  the 
writing  is  to  study  the  writer. 

A  thoroughly  good  novel  demonstrates  on  the  part 
of  its  maker  the  possession  of  certain  distinct  charac- 
teristics. He  should  have,  to  some  degree  at  least, 
the  eve  of  a  painter.  He  must  be  able  to  discrimi- 
nate between  what  is  picturesque  in  description  and 
what  is  unpicturesque  and  wearisome,  as  well  as 
between  what  is  and  what  is  not  worthy  to  be  de- 
scribed. Moreover,  he  should  have  a  sculptor's 
keen  sense  of  harmonious  -  proportions  to  restrain 
him  when  tempted  to  add  to  his  work  matter  which 
in  itself  may  be  good,  but  which,  so  used,  will  only 
mar  the  symmetry  of  the  composition  and  interrupt 
or  delay  the  action  of  the  story. 

In  a  word,  as  the  great  painter  is  said  to  contain 
the  sculptor  also,  so  the  novelist  should  contain  both 
sculptor  and  painter.  Mrs.  Oliphant  seems  to  con- 
tain neither  in  any  high  degree  of  development. 
Unfortunately,  many  authors  of  her  class,  whose 
works  are  eagerly  and  widely  read,  show  a  shameful 
negligence  of  even  elementary  studies.  Of  these 
Mrs.  Oliphant  is  one,  as  further  on  will  more  fully 
appear.  She  has,  howevep,  unquestionable  natural 
powers.  She  contrives  interesting,  often  strong, 
stories,  but  mars  them  in  the  telling.  Descriptions 
abound,  in  place  and  out  of  place;  descriptions  of 
houses,  of  rooms,  of  furniture,  of  wall-paper,  of  win- 


these  a  unions. 


115 


(low-curtains,  of  ceilings,  of  floors,  things  of  which 
any  knowledge  is  as  useless  to  the  reader  as  its  acqui- 
sition by  him  is  wearisome ;  descriptions  of  scenes 
and  places  which  could  not  beget  in  him  any  concep- 
tion "without  the  aid  of  maps  and  colored  drawings; 
descriptions  of  feeling,  and  states  of  feeling,  and 
conflicts  of  feeling,  and  changes  of  feeling,  and  want 
of  feeling,  till  he  is  so  benumbed  by  the  dull  iteration 
and  interminable  monotony  that  to  no  feeling  is  he 
capable  of  responding.  All  this  is  done  regardless 
of  the  fact  that  the  action  is  made  to  stand  still,  and 
the  thread  of  the  story  to  be  lost. 

This  author's  imagination  is,  in  some  respects, 
strong.  It  can  conceive  clearly  individualized  and 
consistent  characters  in  trying  and  dramatic  juxta- 
positions and  complications,  and  can  see  plainly  the 
way  to  a  logical  conclusion.  It  is,  however,  the 
imagination  of  the  detective,  the  lawyer,  the  specu- 
lator in  science,  not  that  of  the  poet.  Like  that  of 
many  another  English  novel-wrriter,  it  is  more  like 
a  draught  horse  than  it  is  like  Pegasus.  It  is  chiefly 
employed  in  laboriously  exaggerating  the  common- 
place. Within  and  partly  concealed  by  this  mass 
lies,  generally,  a  good  story.  The  plot  is  almost 
always  praiseworthy.  In  filling  it  up  the  overload- 
ing, the  disruptions,  the  violent  separation  of  parts, 
and  the  consequent  deformities  are  produced. 

Perhaps  one  incentive  to  this  kind  of  work  is  that 
the  author,  in  common  with  some  who  hold  places 
even  higher  than  her  own  in  public  estimation,  some 


11(5  HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 

time  ago  discovered  that  a  gossiping  disposition 
might  be  turned  to  profit.  Although  women  are 
currently  mentioned  as  chiefly  governed  by  this  dis- 
position, men  in  society,  in  the  clubs,  in  the  street, 
and  in  their  books,  demonstrate  the  fact  that  many 
of  them,  in  this  respect  at  least,  are  peers  of  the 
other  sex.  When  writers  of  both  sexes  came  to  per- 
ceive that  a  story  which  might  be  told  well  in  one 
volume  could  also  be  told  in  three,  by  crowding  in 
at  every  practicable  place  the  gossipy  talk  of  some 
old  lady,  some  old  gentleman,  some  young  woman, 
some  young  man,  some  persons  of  either  sex  in  the 
lower  walks  of  life,  and  some  equally  gossipy  talk  of 
the  author  himself  about  his  own  personages  or  other 
things,  and  that  the  three  volumes  would  fetch  in 
the  market  three  times  as  much  money  as  would  the 
one,  the  character  of  English  novels  was,  for  a  time 
at  least,  decided.  Hence  it  has  become  some  part  of 
the  business  of  almost  every  English  writer  of  fiction 
to  sell  at  a  round  price  pages  of  such  talk  and  such 
scandal  as  in  the  ordinaiy  haunts  of  men  and  women 
may  be  had  for  nothing.  And  the  nearer  the  written 
page  resembles  what  is  heard  in  these  resorts,  the 
more  it  is  admired  by  a  large  class  of  readers. 

In  this  kind  of  composition  Mrs.  Oliphant  excels. 
"  Phoebe  J unior,"  the  last  of  her  works  published,  is 
a  fair  sample.  The  action  almost  wholly  takes  place 
among  ill-bred  and  comparatively  ignorant  people, 
who  are  represented  as  dissenters.  With  this  class  the 
author  especially  likes  to  deal.    You  are  inclined  to 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


117 


believe  it  is  the  class  with  which  she  is  most  familiar, 
and  that  her  work  is,  in  a  great  measure,  that  of  a 
reporter  rather  than  that  of  an  inventor.  All  the 
scandal,  the  gossip,  the  petty  envy  and  jealousy,  the 
selfishness,  the  clumsy  matrimonial  intrigues,  and, 
generally,  the  worst  features  of  such  a  society  are 
only  too  well  depicted.  Many  transitory  personages 
are  introduced  from  time  to  time,  who  have  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  the  action  of  the  story,  solely 
for  the  purpose,  so  far  as  can  be  discovered,  of  ex- 
hibiting these  traits  more  completely  and  in  greater 
variety.  To  what  end  ?  That  the  author  may  show 
how  well  she  is  acquainted  with  low-bred  and  vulgar 
people.  It  is  hard  to  perceive  any  other  reason, 
unless  that  she  finds  this  kind  of  life  interesting,  and 
therefore  believes  that  it  will  interest  others. 

That  she,  like  too  many  writers  of  her  class,  should 
feel  a  natural  sympathy  with  ignorance  seems  proba- 
ble, when  you  observe  that  she  complacently  violates 
the  plainest  rules  of  English  grammar;  as,  for  in- 
stance : 

"  would  have  fancied  it  was  them  who  were  thus 

spying  upon  him." 

"  It  was  him  whom  she  thanked." 
"  Are  you  sure  this  is  her?" 

"  It  would  be  her  whom  he  would  cover  with  disgrace." 

Many  like  errors  may  be  noted  in  the  twenty  or 
thirty  books  which  this  author  has  written. 

Aside  from  such  defects  as  have  been  indicated, 
11 


118 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


Mrs.  Oliphant's  style  is  to  be  commended,  because, 
in  the  main,  it  is  simple  and  free  from  obscurity.  It 
is  not  remarkable,  however,  for  any  special  qualities 
of  excellence,  but  keeps  on  its  even  and  rather  pro- 
saic course  somewhat  above  respectable  mediocrity. 
-  In  tone,  her  stories  are  wholesome  and  likewise 
respectable.  She  is  too  matter-of-fact  to  deal  in 
sentimentality,  or  to  indulge  morbid  fancies;  too 
pure-minded  to  find  j^lcasure  in  glossing  impurity 
or  varnishing  crime..  In  this  respect  her  works  can 
have  only  a  healthful  influence. 

Most  readers  would  doubtless  agree  that  "The 
Bro widows"  is  one  of  this  author's  best  compositions. 
Mr.  Bro wnlow  is  a  man  with  an  honest  conscience, 
to  whom  a  large  sum  of  money,  fifty  thousand 
pounds,  was  left  in  trust,  with  a  condition  that  if  the 
person  for  whom  the  trust  was  created  should  not  be 
discovered  in  the  course  of  twenty-five  years,  all  this 
money  should  become  the  property  of  Mr.  Brown- 
low  and  his  heirs  in  perpetuity.  The  person,  who, 
if  found,  was  to  be  benefited  by  this  legacy,  was  a 
woman  that,  long  before  the  death  of  the  testator, 
had  married  a  common  soldier  and  disappeared. 
What  name  she  had  taken,  whither  she  had  gone, 
what  had  become  of  her,  no  one  knew.  Like  the 
honorable  man  that  he  was,  Brownlowr  made  diligent 
search  for  this  legatee,  but  without  avail.  Gradually 
he  came  to  consider  the  fortune  as  his  own,  entered 
on  a  more  expensive  style  of  living,  brought  up  his 
son  and  daughter  in  luxury,  and  was  well  enough 


THESE  A  UTHORS. 


119 


contented  till  within  a  twelvemonth  of  the  time  when 
the  twenty-five  years  were  to  expire.  Then  he  was 
alarmed  by  indications  that  the  lost  heir  had  ap- 
peared in  the  neighborhood.  Should  she  ascertain 
her  rights  and  now  claim  the  inheritance  with  accrued 
interest,  Mr.  Brownlow  would  be  utterly  ruined  and 
his  children  beggars.  A  terrible  temptation  entered 
into  him  and  constantly  agitated  his  bosom. 

You  would  suppose  that  any  reader  with  sufficient 
imagination  to  enjoy  reading  a  novel,  could  easily 
conceive  enough  of  the  workings  of  this  temptation, 
or  could  easily  infer  what  they  must  be  from  the  facts 
of  the  case,  and  from  the  actions  and  words  of  Mr. 
Brownlow.  But  our  author  is  plainly  of  a  different 
opinion.  Besides,  the  opportunity  for  exposition  and 
demonstration  must  not  be  lost. 

"  He  left  the  breakfast-room,  which  was  so  bright,  and 
wandered  away  into  the  library,  a  room  which,  busy  man  as 
he  was,  he  occupied  very  seldom." 

Here  follows  a  description  of  the  room,  of  its  size, 
of  how  the  books  looked,  of  what  the  view  was  like 
on  which  the  windows  opened,  and  then : 

"  He  went  in  and  sat  down  by  the  table,  and  looked 
round  at  all  the  shelves,  and  drew  a  blotting-book  toward 
him  mechanically.  What  did  he  want  with  it  ?  He  had 
no  letters  to  write  there, — nothing  to  do  that  belonged  to 
that  luxurious,  leisurely  place.  If  there  was  work  to  be 
done,  it  was  at  the  office  that  he  ought  to  do  it.  He  had 
not  the  habit  of  writing  here, — nor  even  of  reading.  The 


120 


HOW  TllKY  STRIKE  ME, 


handsome  library  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  life.  This, 
perhaps,  was  why  he  established  himself  in  it  on  the  special 
day  of  which  we  speak.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  any  moment 
his  fine  house  might  topple  down  about  his  ears  like  a  house 
of  cards.  He  had  thought  over  it  in  the  High  street  till 
he  was  sick  and  his  head  swam ;  perhaps  some  new  light 
might  fall  on  the  subject  if  he  was  to  think  of  it  here. 
This  was  why  he  established  himself  at  the  table,  making 
in  his  leisure  a  pretence  to  himself  of  having  something  to 
do.  If  he  had  been  used  to  any  sort  of  guile  or  dishonor- 
able dealing,  the  chances  are  it  would  have  been  easier  for 
him  ;  but  it  is  hard  upon  a  man  to  change  the  habits  of  his 
life.  John  Brownlow  had  to  maintain  within  himself  a 
fight  harder  than  that  which  a  man  ordinarily  has  to  fight 
against  temptation  ;  for  the  fact  was  this  wa£  far,  very  far 
from  being  his  case.  He  was  not  tempted  to  do  wrong. 
It  was  the  good  impulse  which  in  his  mind  had  come  to  be 
the  thing  to  be  struggled  against.  What  he  wanted  was  to 
do  what  was  right  ;  but  with  all  the  steadiness  of  a  virtuous 
resolution,  he  had  set  himself  to  struggle  against  his  impulse 
and  to  do  wrong." 

You  see  the  exposition  is  becoming  misty  and  con- 
fused. The  expositor  is  handling  matters  which  she 
cannot  grasp  and  which  she  dees  not  understand; 
is,  in  fact,  talking  nonsense.  She  is  bewildered  by 
repeated  efforts  to  get  at  and  show  the  bottom  of 
things ;  has,  to  speak  plainly,  run  her  investigations 
into  the  mud.  What  but  temptation  to  do  wrong 
can  make  a  man  of  upright  character  and  correct 
habits  of  thought  and  action  struggle  against  his 
better  impulses? 


THESE  AUTHORS.  121 

Not  only  Mr.  Brownlow  has  thoughts  and  reflec- 
tions and  feelings,  but  Jack,  his  son,  has  reflections 
and  feelings  and  thoughts,  and  his  daughter,  Sara, 
has  feelings  and  thoughts  and  reflections.  So  has 
Powys,  so  has  Mrs.  Preston,  so  has  Pamela.  A  large 
number  of  subordinate  characters  have  them  likewise. 
You  are  in  a  maze  of  expositions,  one  so  like  the 
other  that  you  despair  of  ever  finding  your  way  out, 
unless  you  clear  the  whole  dreary  entanglement  by  a 
series  of  leaps.  Plainly  enough,  in  a  work  of  this 
kind  only  so  much  language  should  be  used  as  is 
necessary  clearly  and  gracefully  to  present  the  com- 
plete idea  of  the  story,  its  incidents  and  scenes, 
with  appropriate  adornments.  Whatever  is  more 
than  this  clogs  the  movement,  which  is  of  the  very 
essence  of  a  good  tale.  In  Mrs.  Oliphant's  books 
the  movement  is  so  obstructed  by  superfluity  of 
words  that,  much  of  the  time,  it  is  altogether  imper- 
ceptible. 

Mr.  May,  the  clergyman,  to  meet  the  necessities 

of  Cotsdean,  a,  poor  parishioner  from  whom  he  had 

borrowed  money  which  he  cannot  pay,  has  gradually 

yielded  to  temptation  and  forged  the  signature  of 

Tozer,  the  grandfather  of  Phoebe  Junior.  The 

fraudulent  act  has  been  discovered,  but  Tozer  only 

suspects  Cotsdean.    Phoebe  has  accidentally  become 

aware  of  the  whole  truth,  and,  in  order  to  protect  the 

guilty  and  suffering  man,  has  obtained  possession  of 

the  forged  paper  and  hidden  it.    The  personages 

named  and  several  others  are  present: 
11* 


122 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


"  '  Make  her  give  up  my  bill,'  said  Tozer :  '  I'll  hear 
nothing  else  till  this  is  settled.  My  bill !  It's  forgery  ;  that's 
what  it  is.  Don't  speak  to  me  about  money.  I'll  have 
him  punished.  I'll  have  him  rot  in  prison  for  it.  I'll  not 
cheat  the  law — .  You  people  as  has  influence  with  that  girl 
make  her  give  it  to  me.    I  can't  touch  him  without  the  bill.' 

"  Mr.  May  had  been  placed  in  a  chair  by  the  two  young 
men  who  watched  over  him  ;  but  as  Tozer  spoke  he  got 
up,  struggling  wildly,  almost  tearing  himself  out  of  the 
coat  by  which  they  held  him.  1  Let  me  go  !'  he  said. 
'  Do  you  hear  him  ?  Rot  in  prison  !  with  hard  labor  !  It 
would  kill  me !  And  it  used  to  be  hanging  !  My  God  ! 
my  God  !  won't  you  let  me  go  ?' 

"  Tozer  stopped  short ;  stopped  by  this  passion  which 
was  greater  than  his  own.  He  looked  wonderingly  at  the 
livid  face,  the  struggling  figure,  impressed  in  spite  of  him- 
self. '  He's  gone  mad,'  he  said.  '  Good  Lord !  But  he's 
got  nothing  to  do  with  it.    Can't  you  take  him  away  ?' 

"  '  Grandpapa,'  said  -Phoebe  in  his  ear,  £  here  it  is,  your 
bill :  it  was  he  who  did  it — and  it  has  driven  him  mad. 
Look  !  I  give  it  up  to  you  :  and  there  he  is — that  is  your 
work.    Now  do  what  you  please — ' 

"  Trembling,  the  old  man  took  the  paper  out  of  her  hand. 
He  gazed,  wondering,  at  the  other,  who,  somehow — moved, 
in  his  excitement,  by  a  sense  that  the  decisive  moment  had 
come — stood  still,  too,  his  arm  half  pulled  out  of  his  coat, 
his  face  wild  with  dread  and  horror.  For  a  moment  they 
looked  at  each  other  in  a  common  agony,  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other  clear  enough  to  understand,  but  both  feeling 
that  some  tremendous  crisis  had  come  upon  them. 

"  '  He — done  it !'  said  Tozer,  appalled  and  almost  speech- 
less.   '  He  done  it !' 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


123 


"  They  all  crowded  round,  a  circle  of  scared  faces. 
J'luebe  alone  stood  calm.  She  was  the  only  one  who  knew 
the  whole,  except  the  culprit,  who  understood  nothing, 
with  that  mad  confusion  in  his  eyes.  But  he  was  over- 
awed, too,  and  in  his  very  madness  recognized  the  crisis. 
He  stood  still,  struggling  no  longer,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  homely  figure  of  the  old  butter-man,  who  stood 
trembling,  thunderstruck,  with  that  fatal  piece  of  paper  in 
his  hand. 

"  Tozer  had  been  mad  for  revenge  two  moments  be- 
fore— almost  as  wild  as  the  guilty  man  before  him — with 
a  fierce  desire  to  punish  and  make  an  example  of  the  man 
who  had  wronged  him.  But  this  semi-madness  was  ar- 
rested by  the  sight  of  the  other  madman  before  him,  and 
by  the  extraordinary  shock  of  this  revelation.  It  took  all 
the  strength  out  of  him.  He  had  not  looked  up  to  the 
clergyman  as  Cotsdean  did,  but  he  had  looked  up  to  the 
gentleman,  his  customer,  as  being  upon  an  elevation  very 
different  from  his  own,  altogether  above  and  beyond  him ; 
and  the  sight  of  this  superior  being,  thus  humbled,  mad- 
dened, gazing  at  him  with  wild  terror  and  agony,  more  elo- 
quent than  any  supplication,  struck  poor  old  Tozer  to  the 
very  soul.  '  God  help  us  all !'  he  cried  out  with  a  broken, 
sobbing  voice. 

"  He  was  but  a  vulgar  old  fellow,  mean — it  might  be 
worldly — in  his  way ;  but  the  terrible  mystery  of  human 
wickedness  and  guilt  prostrated  his  common  soul  with  as 
sharp  an  anguish  of  pity  and  shame  as  could  have  befallen 
the  most  heroic.  It  seized  upon  him,  so  that  he  could  say 
or  do  nothing  more,  forcing  hot  and  salt  tears  up  into  his 
old  eyes,  and  shaking  him  all  over  with  a  tremor  as  of 
palsy.    The  scared  faces  appeared  to  come  closer  to  Phoebe, 


124 


110  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


to  whom  these  moments  seemed  like  years.  Had  her  trust 
been  vain  ?  Softly,  but  with  an  excitement  beyond  con- 
trol, she  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

" '  That's  true,'  said  Tozer,  half  crying ;  1  something's 
got  to  be  done.  We  can't  all  stand  here  forever,  Phoebe. 
It's  him  as  has  to  be  thought  of.  Show  it  to  him,  poor 
gentleman,  if  he  ain't  past  knowing,  and  burn  it,  and  let  us 
hear  of  it  no  more.' 

"  Solemnly,  in  the  midst  of  them  all,  Phoebe  held  up  the 
paper  before  the  eyes  of  the  guilty  man.  If  he  understood 
it  or  not,  no  one  could  tell.  He  did  not  move,  but  stared 
blankly  at  her  and  it.  Then  she  held  it  over  the  lamp  and 
let  it  blaze,  and  drop  into  harmless  ashes  in  the  midst  of 
them  all.  Tozer  dropped  down  into  his  elbow-chair,  sniff- 
ing and  sobbing.  Mr.  May  stood  quite  still,  with  a  look 
of  utter  dulness  and  stupidity  coming  over  the  face  in  which 
so  much  terror  had  been.  If  he  understood  what  had 
passed,  it  was  only  in  feeling,  not  in  intelligence.  He  grew 
still  and  dull  in  the  midst  of  that  strange  weakness  which 
all  the  time  was  only  half  madness — a  mixture  of  conscious 
excitement  and  anxiety  with  that  which  passes  the  bounda- 
ries of  consciousness.  For  the  moment  he  was  stilled  into 
stupid  idiotcy,  and  looked  at  them  with  vacant  eyes." 

This  is  a  fair  example  of  Mrs.  Oliphant's  best 
work,  but  you  see  in  it  her  repetitions  of  thought, 
and  the  irrepressible  disposition  to  substitute  descrip- 
tion for  action.  You  perceive  that  the  author  her- 
self, after  exhausting  her  powers  of  concentrating 
and  intensifying,  feels  that  something  of  thought 
and  emphasis,  something  of  ardor  and  elevation, 
something  of  condensation  and  completeness  are 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


125 


wanting,  and  thus,  with  the  purpose  of  supplying 
this  conscious  defect,  she  aggravates  it  by  iteration 
and  expansion.  Instead  of  compensating  the  want 
of  roundness,  she  attenuates  the  flatness.  She  lacks 
the  grasp  to  seize  a  whole  subject  all  at  once,  to 
place  it  at  a  proper  height,  and  hold  it  there  till  ren- 
dered stable  and  enduring.  As  has  been  intimated, 
she  can  conceive  with  some  clearness  various  char- 
acters well  individualized ;  can  so  arrange  them  that 
they  come  naturally  enough  into  antagonistic,  try- 
ing, dramatic  contact  with  each  other ;  but  she  can- 
not bring  these  conceptions,  combined  so  as  to  make 
parts  of  one  integral  whole,  clearly  and  strongly  into 
the  light.  One  cause  of  these  defects,  probably,  is 
that,  like  many  others,  she  writes  too  much. 

That  proper  care  and  study  might  have  made  this 
lady  very  superior  as  a  writer  to  what  she  now  is 
seems  plain ;  it  is  equally  plain  that  now  she  must 
be  classed  with  the  business-like,  not  with  the  ar- 
tistic, novelists. 


12G 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


AN  OVER-RATED  POET. 

Mr.  Tennyson  enjoys  a  very  wide  reputation  as 
a  poet.  He  has  written  a  great  many  verses,  and 
these  have  a  ready  sale  in  the  markets  of  the  Old 
and  the  New  World.  It  does  not  necessarily  follow 
from  this  that  Mr.  Tennyson  is  a  great  poet.  It  is 
at  least  possible  that  some  part  of  his  reputation  may 
be  fictitious ;  that  it  may  have  been  swollen  by  what 
in  some  sense  may  be  considered  natural  causes, 
beyond  his  control. 

In  one  of  his  famous  criticisms,  Lord  Macaulay 
illustrates  by  a  fable  how  a  man  without  any  active 
fault  of  his  own  may  be  made  to  pass  for  what  he 
is  not.  According  to  the  story  a  pious  Brahmin  was 
induced  to  buy  an  unclean  and  ugly  cur  for  sacrifice 
by  three  confederate  rogues,  who  came  up  one  after 
another  and  with  a  confident  air  of  respectability 
assured  the  holy  man  that  the  cur  was  a  fine  sheep. 
Just  in  this  way  are  many  persons  made  to  affect  a 
liking  for  metrical  trash  and  to  buy  the  volumes  in 
which  it  is  offered.  "  They  are  ashamed  to  dislike 
what  men  who  speak  as  having  authority  declare  to 
be  good.  The  author  and  publisher  are  interested  in 
crying  up  the  book.    Nobody  has  any  strong  interest 


THESE  A  I  TJIORS. 


127 


in  crying  it  down.  Those  who  are  best  fitted  to 
guide  the  public  opinion  think  it  beneath  them  to 
expose  mere  nonsense,  and  comfort  themselves  by 
reflecting  that  such  popularity  cannot  last.  This 
contemptuous  lenity  has  been  carried  too  far."  Had 
it  suited  their  purpose  as  well,  however,  the  three 
rogues  might  with  as  great  solemnity  have  assured 
the  Brahmin  that  a  sheep  was  a  sheep.  Likewise  a 
book  which  is  lauded  by  the  common  consent  of 
those  who  make  opinions  for  people  that  cannot  form 
their  own,  may  contain  excellent  matter  and  be 
worthy  of  great  praise.  It  does  not  follow,  there- 
fore, that  even  an  unearned  reputation  may- not  be 
sustained  by  an  author's  works.  But,  in  the  main, 
such  is  not  the  case ;  and  a  writer  conscious  of  real 
power  would  shrink  in  a  kind  of  morbid  terror  from 
premature  or  excessive  popularity.  He  feels  in- 
stinctively that  "  it  is  for  his  honor  as  a  gentleman, 
and,  if  he  is  really  a  man  of  talents,  it  will  eventu- 
ally be  for  his  honor  and  interest  as  a  writer,  that  his 
works  should  come  before  the  public  recommended 
by  their  own  merits  alone,  and  should  be  discussed 
with  perfect  freedom." 

These  fictitious  reputations  are  hurtful  in  a  way 
not  mentioned  with  others  by  Lord  Macaulay,  and 
which  even  his  comprehensive  vision  seems  to  have 
overlooked,  namely,  they  fix  a  false  standard.  A 
youth,  glowing  with  poetic  impulses,  pregnant  with 
great  ideas,  craving  the  admiration  and  the  love  of 
a  universe,  sees  some  "contemptible  poet"  lauded, 


128 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


esteemed,  loved,  while  Shakspeare  and  Milton  and 
those  near  to  them  are  spoken  of  with  conventional 
respect,  and  unread.  He  half  believes  that  his  in- 
stincts are  all  wrong;  half  doubts  whether  he  even 
possesses  poetic  taste,  since  the  verses  of  the  favorite 
weary  or  repel  him  ;  tries  to  cultivate  himself  down 
to  the  height  of  the  popular  writer ;  is  so  bent  by 
this  effort  that  he  cannot  use  his  strength;  does  not 
even  obtain  the  transient  applause  for  which  he  has 
deformed  himself;  becomes  a  mere  blight,  a  discon- 
tented failure.  No  mirror  has  revealed  to  him  that 
he  is  a  swan ;  more  and  more  convinced  that  he  is 
an  ugly  duck,  he  dies  in  that  miserable  belief.  But 
for  this  wrong  leading  he  might  possibly  have  been 
a  lasting  honor  to  his  country  and  an  ornament  to  its 
literature. 

That  interested  authors  of  puffing,  or  those  who 
ignorantly  echo  them,  should  have  any  conscience  in 
this  matter  is  not  to  be  expected.  But  competent 
critics  must  perforce  see  that  they  have  here  a  weighty 
responsibility,  and  that  "contemptuous  lenity"  may 
indeed  be  "  carried  too  far." 

As  for  Mr.  Tennyson,  it  cannot  be  suspected  that 
he  has  stooped  to  any  bad  means  for  fabricating  a 
public  opinion  to  his  advantage.  That  he  has  prof- 
ited by  such  fabrication  cannot  be  questioned.  The 
ranks  of  no  profession  are  free  from  a  large  number 
of  persons  who,  unable  themselves  to  give  any  cer- 
tain voice,  eagerly  serve  as  sounding-boards  to  aug- 
ment and  reflect  the  oracular  utterances  of  those  who 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


129 


assume  to  speak  by  authority.    Like  politicians,  they 
vote  as  the  demagogue  bids,  and  though  they  may 
have  shouted  and  cast  their  ballots  against  the  win- 
ning candidate,  for  him  they  are  the  first  to  throw  up 
their  hats,    Perhaps  there  is  even  a  larger  propor- 
tion of  such  people  among  those  who,  with  more  or 
less  constancy,  write  for  the  press  on  subjects  of  lit- 
erature and  art  than  can  be  found  in  any  other  con- 
nection.   The  real  or  supposed  incompetency  of  the 
general  public  to  deal  critically  with  these  things  is 
a  powerful  incentive  to  charlatans.    When  a  new 
candidate  for  literary  or  artistic  honors  appears,  the 
leader  speaks,  and  this  echoing  chorus  responds.  He 
may  in  strong  language  reject  the  solicitant,  and  the 
unhappy  candidate  hears  the  condemnation  repeated 
with  various  intonations  of  invective  along  the  ranks 
of  sounding-boards.    It  may  be  that  shortly  another 
leader,  with  more  potent  voice,  welcomes  and  lauds 
the  same  aspirant.    Instantly  the  sounding-boards 
give  forth  their  hollow  and  louder  praises.  These 
echoes  have  intelligence  enough  to  perceive  which, 
for  the  moment,  is  the  popular  side,  and  vanity 
enough  to  burn  for  distinction  as  its  mouthpiece. 
By  this  condition  of  things,  for  which  neither  author 
nor  publisher  can  be  held  responsible,  many  a  writer's 
fame  has  been  magnified  infinitely  beyond  its  just 
proportions ;  and  by  this  condition  of  things  proba- 
bly no  man's  reputation  has  been  more  unduly  swollen 
than  Mr.  Tennyson's. 

It  would  doubtless  be  generally  admitted  by  his 
12 


130 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


admirers  that  "The  Idyls  of  the  King"  are  the  best 
poems  in  the  volumes  of  Mr.  Tennyson's  works. 
But  these  he  never  conceived ;  he  never  brought 
them  forth.  They  were  antiquated,  unknown  to  the 
public,  unfamiliar  to  and  almost  forgotten  by  many 
of  the  learned  when  he  fathered  them.  They  were 
old-fashioned  in  dress,  manner,  and  speech.  In  his 
eye,  accustomed  to  sleekness,  they  appeared  gaunt 
and  inelegant.  Their  language  was  too  simple  and 
straightforward ;  their  cadences  sounded  barbarous 
to  an  effeminate  ear.  As  a  woman  who  has  no  chil- 
dren, or  a  mother  whose  own  offspring  are  weak  or 
idiotic,  craving  a  man-child,  healthy,  robust,  spirited, 
even  if  he  be  also  a  little  uncouth,  gladly  adopts  such 
a  one  and  labors  anxiously  to  soften  and  refine,  to 
clothe  and  to  teach  him,  so  Mr.  Tennyson  gratified 
a  certain,  as  yet  unsatisfied,  want  of  his  nature  by 
adopting  these  aged  orphans,  of  whose  parents  noth- 
ing was  plainly  known.  He  fattened  them  with 
sweetmeats,  colored  them  with  rouge  and  pearl-pow- 
der; taught  them  to  speak  many  carefully-ordered 
modern  words,  clad  them  in  courtly  costumes,  with 
long-tailed  coats  and  widely-trailing  gowns.  With 
this  his  work  began  and  ended,  so  far  as  these  poems 
are  concerned.  These  epics  are  in  no  manner  his 
invention.  Their  ideas  never  took  form  and  consist- 
ence from  his  brain.  Even  most  of  the  thoughts 
that  he  has  verbosely  expressed,  and  many  of  which 
might  pass  for  his  own  because  not  found  in  the 
original  tales  of  the  Kound  Table  connected  with 


THESE  A  UTHORS. 


131 


the  particular  story  in  which  he  makes  use  of  them, 
may  yet  be  discovered  in  other  parts  of  this  treasure- 
house  from  which  he  drew  thoughts  and  ideas  alike, 
selected,  compiled,  ornamented  them ;  doing  the 
work  of  a  fastidious  editor.  Thus,  in  his  version  of 
the  "  Morte  D' Arthur"  may  be  found  these  lines, 
which,  with  others  like  them,  have  been  much 
admired : 

"  Thus  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 
1  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.    Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep — the  men  I  loved.    I  think  that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will  be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride  :  for  thou  rememberest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  with  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  rowed  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it  like  a  king : 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known : 


132 


J 10W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


But  now  delny  not :  take  Excalibur, 

And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere : 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me  word.' " 

One  portion  only  of  this  is  taken  from  the  original 
legend  of  the"Morte  D'Arthur,"  as  it  appears  in 
the  collection  of  Round  Table  stories  most  accessible 
to  the  general  reader,  namely  :  "  Leave  this  mourn- 
ing and  weeping,"  said  the  King,  "for  wit  thou 
well,  if  I  might  live  myself,  the  death  of  Sir  Liu  an 
would  grieve  me  evermore :  but  my  time  hath  past. 
Therefore,"  said  Arthur  unto  Sir  Bcdivere,  "take 
thou  Excalibur,  my  good  sword,  and  go  with  it  to 
yonder  water-side ;  and  when  thou  comcst  there,  I 
charge  thee  throw  my  sword  in  tha£  water,  and  ccme 
again  and  tell  me  what  thou  there  seest."  The  fact 
that  King  Arthur  was  smitten  through  the  helm  is 
also  related  by  the  same  tale.  The  original  of  another 
portion  of  what  is  quoted  above  from  Mr.  Tennyson's 
work  may  be  read  in  "  The  Sangreal,"  as  follows : 

"  When  King  Arthur  heard  this  he  was  greatly  dis- 
pleased, for  "he  knew  well  that  they  might  not  gainsay 
their  vows.  'Alas!'  said  he  to  Sir  Gawain,  'you  have 
nigh  slain  me  with  the  vow  and  premise  that  ye  have  made, 
for  ye  have  bereft  me  of  the  fairest  fellowship  that  ever 
were  seen  together  in  any  realm  of  the  world ;  for  when 
they  shall  depart  hence,  I  am  sure  that  all  shall  never  meet 
more  in  this  world.'  " 

The  source  of  still  another  portion  may  be  found 
in  "  Arthur" : 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


133 


"  So  they  rode  till  they  came  to  a  lake,  which  was  a  fair 
water  and  broad.  And  in  the  midst  of  the  lake  Arthur 
was  aware  of  an  arm  clothed  in  white  samite,  that  held  a 
fair  sword  in  the  hand.  '  Lo !'  said  Merlin,  '  yonder  is 
that  sword  that  I  spake  of.  It  belongeth  to  the  Lady  of 
the  Lake,  and  if  she  will,  thou  may  est  take  it ;  but  if  she 
will  not,  it  will  not  be  in  thy  power  to  take  it.'  So  Sir 
Arthur  and  Merlin  alighted  from  their  horses,  and  went 
into  a  boat ;  and  when  they  came  to  the  sword  that  the 
hand  held  Sir  Arthur  took  it  by  the  handle  and  took  it  to 
him,  and  the  arm  and  the  hand  went  under  water." 

Thus  the  compilation  may  be  traced  throughout. 
The  old  Gothic  Temple  has  been  re-arranged,  reno- 
vated, and  adorned,  if  the  use  of  such  tautology  as 
that  in  the  sixth  of  the  lines  quoted  above,  and  the 
frequent  employment  of  words,  merely  for  the  sake 
of  their  sound,  can  be  called  adornment.  To  com- 
plete his  re-arrangement  and  ornamentation  the  reno- 
vator pillaged  other  noble  old  edifices  of  the  same 
class,  taking  a  column  from  one,  a  capital  from 
another,  an  arch  from  a  third.  Then  he  framed  a 
porch  and  set  it  before  the  temple.  And  what  a 
porch !  It  is  all  his  own.  No  man  will  dispute  for 
the  honor  of  its  building.  Rashly  did  Mr.  Tenny- 
son place  this  prologue.  It  brings  into  sharp  con- 
trast the  invention  of  the  real  author  of  the  u  Morte 
D'Arthur,"  and  the  almost  entire  want  of  any  such 
quality  in  the  poet  laureate.  The  one  work  is  sym- 
metrical, noble,  lofty ;  the  other  flat,  poor,  unshapely. 
They  stand  on  levels  immeasurably  apart.  Only 
12* 


134 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


when  Mr.  Tennyson  is  supported  by  a  structure  of 
this  kind,  ready  built,  does  he  appear  to  move  at  the 
altitude  of  grandeur.  He  mounts  sucli  edifices  as 
the  fresco-pa  inter  or  the  mosaic-maker  climbs  the 
scaffolding  in  the  dome  of  a  cathedral,  and  for  much 
the  same  purpose. 

The  quotation  given  above  illustrates  also  some- 
thing else,  namely,  Mr.  Tennyson's  want  of  any  nice 
sense  of  dramatic  fitness,  and  his  ability  to  belittle 
what  is  great,  confuse  what  is  simple,  and  bring 
down  what  is  sublime.  Compare,  for  example,  the 
manner  in  which  he  causes  the  story  of  how  Arthur 
came  into  possession  of  Excalibur  to  be  told,  with 
the  way  in  which  it  was  related  by  its  real  author. 
It  is  against  all  likelihood  and  propriety  that  a  man, 
smitten  through  the  helm,  and  just  recovered  from  a 
long  swoon,  feeling  moreover  that  "without  help  he 
cannot  last  till  morn/'  should  waste  his  precious  time 
in  recalling  to  another,  and  especially  to  one  who 
already  knew  all  about  it — "for  thou  rememberest 
how" — the  way  he  got  that  famous  sword.  The 
vitally  pressing  question  was,  what  at  the  instant  to 
do  with  it.  And  yet,  in  the  laureate's  version,  King 
Arthur  not  only  tells  how  he  came  by  the  weapon, 
but  is  quite  at  leisure  also  to  interject  expletives — 
"  mystic,  wonderful."  To  be  sure  they  fill  out  Mr. 
Tennyson's  verse  for  him,  after  a  fashion: 

"These  equal  syllables  alone  require, 
Though  oft  the  ear  the  open  vowe.s  tire, 


THESE  A  UriIOliS. 


135 


"While  expletives  their  feeble  aid  do  join, 
And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  line." 

But  Arthur  was  not  then  thinking  of  the  "dresser 
up  of  lost  epics,"  or  of  his  measures.  Even  if  the 
wounded  King  could  then  properly  have  told  this 
story,  he  could  not  properly  have  used  these  adjectives. 
They  weaken  and  degrade  the  whole  passage.  From 
any  point  of  view  they  are  entirely  out  of  character. 

The  distinction  between  a  framer  of  verses  and  the 
maker  of  a  poem  is  very  wide.  "  What  distinguishes 
the  artist  from  the  amateur,"  says  Goethe,  "  is  archi- 
tectonike  in  the  highest  sense;  that  power  of  exe- 
cution which  creates,  forms,  and  constitutes ;  not  the 
profoundness  of  single  thoughts,  not  the  richness  of 
imagery,  not  the  abundance  of  illustration."  The 
poem  is  a  complete  conception,  and,  like  the  poet,  it 
"  is  born,  not  fabricated."  Its  very  essence  is  idea. 
It  does  not  appear  as  thought,  but  as  the  object  and 
suggester  of  thought.  The  distinguishing  mark  of 
a  poet  is  power  of  invention,  the  ability  to  conceive, 
develop, and  produce  grand,  original,  perfectly  formed 
ideas.  "  A  poet  is  a  maker,"  says  Dryden,  "  as  the 
word  signifies,  and  who  cannot  make,  that  is,  invent, 
hath  his  name  for  nothing."  It  is  in  the  creative 
faculty  that  Mr.  Tennyson  is  most  notably  deficient. 
Just  in  proportion  as  a  man  possesses  this  faculty, 
everything  else  being  equal,  is  he  a  great  or  a  small 
maker,  that  is  a  poet.  Carefully  examine  any  or  all 
of  the  laureate's  most  popular  pieces,  Locksley  Hall, 
Enoch  Arden,  the  Princess,  the  May  Queen,  or  any 


136 


HOW   THEY  ST  JUKE  ME, 


others.  You  will  perceive,  instead  of  invention, 
combination  and  construction  of  a  kind  not  over- 
ingenious  «  literary  commonplaces  instead  of  origin- 
ally produced  materials. 

To  assert  that  Mr.  Tennyson  has  no  invention 
would  be  to  say  an  untruth;  to  point  out  the  fact 
that  his  invention  is  feeble  and  comparatively  fruit- 
less is  only  to  indicate  what  every  critical  reader  may 
discover  for  himself.  Musically-ordered  words,  the 
expression  of  vague  and  delicate  feeling  more  or  less 
vague,  the  dim  representation  by  phrases  of  un- 
defined cravings  which  may  disturb  a  sensitive  soul, 
all  these  are  evidences  of  poetic  instincts  and  tastes, 
but  they  do  not  constitute  a  poem  or  prove  a  poet. 
They  might  well  be  parts  of  a  complete  whole, 
as  colors  might  be  parts  of  a  picture.  In  refined, 
delicate,  attenuated  expression,  or  rather  indication, 
of  indistinct,  somewhat  melancholy,  and  very  senti- 
mental longings,  Mr.  Tennyson  is  at  his  best.  He 
can  make  pretty  figures  of  speech,  sometimes  a 
striking  simile,  occasionally  a  bold  metaphor.  But 
so  could  Spotted-Tail  or  Red  Cloud.  Yet,  were 
either  of  these  heroes  to  speak  as  many  words  as  the 
laureate  has  written,  the  whole  combined  would  not 
constitute  a  poem.  He  can  paint  word-pictures  very 
exquisitely,  though  not  very  compactly;  but  they 
are  made  too  much  after  the  fashion  of  Chinese 
paintings  on  rice-paper,  without  distinct  perspectives 
and  such  logical  connection  as  to  give  them  a  plain, 
strong,  and  coherent  meaning.    Look,  for  instance, 


THESE  AUTHORS.  ]  37 

at  "The  Islet,"  and  see  to  what  a  lame  and  impotent 
conclusion  he  can  come,  or,  rather,  the  want  of  con- 
clusion, the  evaporation  and  diffusion  of  thought  and 
idea  with  which  many  of  his  pieces  terminate.  For 
examples  of  vague  feeling  vaguely  expressed,  read 
"Break,  break,  break,"  or  "Tears,  idle  tears,"  or 
"  The  Bugle  Song."  He  appears  never  to  be  filled 
with  welling  and  pent-up  emotions,  never  bursts 
forth  in  passionate  utterances,  never  exhibits  more' 
than  the  faintest  glow  of  enthusiasm.  He  seems  to 
be  troubled  with  a  chronic  sense  of  emptiness,  craves 
he  knows  not  exactly  what,  conceives  of  the  most 
irrepressible  of  things  as  absorbing  their  force  and 
substance,  or  at  any  rate  receiving  it  from  without, 
not  as  resistlessly  bursting  forth  from  their  confines. 
Even  torrents  are  sucked  from  hills  and  dashed 
downward  : 

"and  right  and  left 
Sucked  from  the  dark  heart  of  the  long  hills  roll 
The  torrents,  dash'd  to  the  vale." 

He  is  generally  passi  ve,  rarely  active ;  his  function 
is  to  take  in,  not  to  give  out.  He  is  like  the  moon 
more  than  like  the  sun  ;  he  receives  and  reflects,  and 
if  spoken  of  figuratively  should  grammatically  be 
mentioned  as  she.  His  most  contented  mood  is  a 
state  of  idle  voluptuousness,  such  as  is  indicated  in 
"  The  Lotos-Eaters."  He  makes  his  nearest  approach 
to  a  manifestation  of  genuine  passion  and  enthusiasm 
when  he  is  vindicating  natural  as  against  conven- 
tional nobility,  and  real  as  against  fictitious  worth. 


138 


HOW  T1IEY  STRIKE  ME, 


For  illustrations  see  "Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere," 
"Locksley  Hall,"  and  "Aylrner's  Field."  In  this 
respect  he  reveals  instincts  truly  poetic,  but  never 
overwhelmingly  forcible.  Generally,  the  words  of 
passion  which  he  uses  on  what  he  judges  to  be  fit 
occasions,  are  cold ;  they  do  not  even  glow ;  the  fire 
is  all  out  of  them.  Rarely,  indeed,  you  may  per- 
ceive some  warmth,  as  in  "  Fatima,"  in  some  portions 
of  "  A  Dream  of  Fair  Women,"  and  in  "  QEnone." 
But  these  seem  to  be  spasmodic  utterances,  the  fitful 
elevation  of  a  pale  and  feeble  flame.  It  does  not 
appear,  however,  that  ardent  passion  in  Mr.  Tenny- 
son is  chilled  by  the  coldness  of  pure  and  profound 
intellect.  If  the  reader  carefully  analyzes  his  some- 
what voluminous  writings,  he  will  find  them  as 
barren  of  strong  and  compressed  thought  as  of 
clearly-defined  idea.  Examine  the  following  song, 
taken  at  random  from  his  collected  works  : 
"  Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 

Thy  tribute  wave  deliver : 
No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

Forever  and  forever. 

"  Flow,  sofdy  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 
A  rivulet  then  a  river  ; 
Nowhere  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
Forever  and  forever. 

"  But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree, 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver ; 
And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee, 
Forever  and  forever. 


THESE  A  UTHORS. 


139 


"  A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver ; 
But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
Forever  and  forever." 

Or  these,  a  fair  sample  of  nine  stanzas  addressed 

"  To  ,  after  reading  a  Life  and  Letters."  A 

line  from  Shakspeare's  epitaph  is  the  text  and  a 
poet  the  subject : 

"  Ah  shameless  !  for  he  did  but  sing 

A  song  that  pleased  us  from  its  worth ; 
No  public  life  was  his  on  earth, 
No  blazon'd  statesman  he,  nor  king. 

"  He  gave  the  people  of  his  best : 

His  worst  he  kept,  his  best  he  gave, 
My  Shakespeare's  curse  on  clown  and  knave 
Who  will  not  let  his  ashes  rest." 

This  was  doubtless  evolved  from  the  laureate's 
inner  consciousness,  and,  in  effect,  contains  his  own 
confession.  If,  indeed,  he  has  only  given  the  people 
of  his  best,  and  truly  kept  back  his  worst,  he  deserves 
for  such  consideration  a  reward  equal  in  value  to  his 
reputation  as  a  poet.  Let  any  discriminating  reader 
who,  pleased  by  the  melody  of  carefully-framed 
verses,  has  taken  it  for  granted  that  the  sense  must 
be  as  delicate  and  pleasing,  and  as  much  in  quantity 
as  the  sound,  judiciously  eliminate  useless  words  from 
Mr.  Tennyson's  writings,  and  then  condense  the 
significance  of  what  remains,  after  - the  manner  of 
whatever  figure  he  may  choose,  either  by  sifting  for 


140 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


the  kernels  or  by  evaporating  the  dilution,  and  he 
will  probably  be  astonished  at  the  smallness  and 
commonplace  quality  of  the  residuum.    In  the  main 
this  author's  versification  is  uncommonly  correct. 
Its  greatest  defects  are  that  it  shows  marks  of  the 
artificer's  hammer,  and  that  by  the  very  use  of  super- 
fluous words  its  pauses  and  cadences  are  made  too 
regular  and  monotonous.    This,  however,  is  but 
artisan's  work,  and  corresponds  to  a  kind  of  labor 
necessary  to  make  any  artistic  creation  sensible.  By 
eminent  poets  and  critics  alike  it  has  been  esteemed 
at  best  one  of  the  lower  parts  of  the  poetic  art.  "  The 
highest  thoughts,"  writes  Mr.  Ruskin,  "are  those 
which  are  least  dependent  on  language,  and  the  dig- 
nity of  any  composition,  and  the  praise  to  which  it 
is  entitled,  are  in  exact  proportion  to  its  independency 
of  language  or  expression."    "  If  the  poetry  of  Mil- 
ton be  examined,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  "  with  regard 
to  the  pauses  and  flow  of  his  verses  into  each  other, 
.  it  will  appear  that  he  has  performed  all  that  our 
language  would  admit;  and  the  comparison  of  his 
numbers  with  those  who  have  cultivated  the  same 
manner  of  writing,  will  show  that  he  excelled  as 
much  in  the  lower  as  the  higher  parts  of  his  art,  and 
that  his  skill  in  harmony  was  not  less  than  his  inven- 
tion or  his  learning."    In  this  labor,  however,  ample 
scope  is  given  for  the  play  of  elegant  fancy  and  the 
liveliest  action  of  a  decorative  imagination.  Both 
of  these  qualities  the  laureate  possesses  in  a  high 
degree;  and  he  often  uses  them  with  admirable 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


141 


effect  in  descriptions  of  natural  scenery,  as  well  as  in 
constructing  figures  of  speech. 

How  many  dramas  or  dramatic  poems  Mr.  Tenny- 
son has  kept  back  is  not  known  ;  only  recently,  how- 
ever, has  he  given  one  to  the  people.  And  because 
this  has  been  given,  it  is  but  fair  to  infer  that  the 
author  esteems  it  of  his  best,  and  is  willing  to  have 
his  qualities  as  a  dramatic  poet  judged  by  it.  Before 
the  publication  of  this  last  work  he  had  occasionally 
dealt  with  subjects  essentially  dramatic,  but  not  in 
such  a  way  that  a  deduction,  as  to  his  dramatic 
powers,  drawn  from  a  general  examination  of  his 
verses,  could  be  altered  thereby.  Many  of  his  ad- 
mirers consider  "  St.  Simeon  Stylites"  to  be  one  of 
his  best  and  strongest  compositions.  It  begins  well, 
quite  in  the  style  of  a  dramatic  monologue,  a  style 
which  the  subject  demands.  But  the  writer  could 
not  sustain  this  manner,  could  not  bring  into  bold 
relief  the  martyr's  passion,  could  not  compress  and 
intensify  his  language  so  that  single  words,  pertinent 
and  necessary  to  the  phrase,  should,  as  it  were,  reflect 
vistas  in  his  past  life,  and,  like  magic  mirrors,  reveal 
the  history  of  his  lengthy  penance.  Therefore  the 
author  falls  out  of  the  dramatic  into  the  narrative 
style,  and  makes  St.  Simeon  relate  to  the  Almighty 
in  detail  all  the  minute  facts  which  the  writer  wished 
him  to  publish  to  his  audience.  It  is  difficult  for 
the  laureate  to  express  clearly  and  forcibly  an  un- 
mixed feeling;  impossible  for  him  to  give  voice  and 
action  to  the  complex  passions,  the  contending  emo- 

13 


142 


HOW  TUVA'  STRIKE  ME, 


tions,  the  mighty  transports  which  make  up  tragedy. 
At  least  such  must  have  been  the  conclusion  to  which 
an  examination  of  this  author's  performances  would 
have  led  an  investigator  before  the  appearance  of 
"Queen  Mary."  He  could  put  together  the  notes 
of  a  simple  ballad,  a  kind  of  folk-song;  he  could 
not  compose  an  opera.  He  is  not  full  enough  ;  has 
not  the  compass  or  the  strength  even  to  furnish  vary- 
ing passions  and  affections  that  together  shall  speak 
through  all  the  tones  of  any  one  diapason  ;  much  less 
has  he  the  power  to  generate  from  a  nature  rich  in 
the  germs  of  all  or  many  characters,  ideal  personages 
in  whom  these  affections  and  passions  may  have 
lodgment.  Such  a  nature  he  does  not  possess.  He 
is  a  harp  to  be  played  on  by  zephyrs,  rather  than 
the  potential  maker  of  all  the  instruments  in  a  whole 
orchestra,  and  the  educer  therefrom  of  universal 
harmonies. 

It  only  remains  to  be  seen  whether  Mr.  Tenny- 
son's drama,  "  Queen  Mary,"  should  alter  our  esti- 
mate of  his  poetic  capacities  and  powers.  It  may  be 
seen  at  a  glance  that  this  composition  is  made  after 
the  fashion  of  plays;  that  is  to  say,  it  is  divided  into 
acts,  which  are  subdivided  into  scenes ;  the  text  is 
written  in  the  form  of  dialogue,  and  in  blank  verse. 
In  these  respects  it  has  all  the  essentials  of  a  drama. 
But  a  more  intimate  search  brings  to  light  no  dra- 
matic spirit,  no  soul  combining,  informing,  directing 
to  one  common  end  all  the  members  of  the  body. 
It  is  a  work  of  shreds  and  patches,  rather  than  a 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


148 


firmly-woven  web  from  which  no  thread  can  be 
drawn  without  marring  the  whole  texture.  It  lacks 
that  close  connection  and  interdependence  of  parts 
which  is  necessary  to  the  oneness  of  every  creation 
and  especially  requisite  in  a  drama.  The  personages 
are  like  automata  made  to  utter  such  bits  of  history 
as,  spoken  in  due  order,  shall  tell  an  intelligible 
story.  They  resemble  the  wooden  men,  result  of  an 
unsuccessful  eifort  of  the  gods  to  make  beings  that 
should  intelligently  speak  and  adore  them,  as  de- 
scribed in  the  Quiche  history  of  the  creation.  "  They 
moved  about  perfectly  well,  it  is  true ;  but  still  the 
heart  and  the  intelligence  were  wanting.  They  were 
but  an  essay,  an  attempt  at  men  j  they  had  neither 
blood,  nor  substance,  nor  moisture,  nor  fat."  Queen 
Mary  is  the  only  person  who  manifests  any  hearty 
emotion,  and  this  she  does  very  sparingly.  In  the 
third  act  she  has  a  soliloquy,  by  far  the  best  passage 
in  the  book,  and  almost  the  only  one  that  shows  any 
dramatic  vigor  or  fire  : 

"  He  hath  awaked  !  he  hath  awaked  ! 
He  stirs  within  the  darkness  ! 
Oh,  Philip,  husband !  now  thy  love  to  mine 
Will  cling  more  close,  and  those  bleak  manners  thaw, 
That  make  me  shamed  and  tongue-tied  in  my  love. 
The  second  Prince  of  Peace — 
The  great  unborn  defender  of  the  Faith, 
Who  will  avenge  me  of  mine  enemies — 
He  comes,  and  my  star  rises. 
The  stormy  Wyatts  and  Northumberlands, 


144 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


The  proud  ambitions  of  Elizabeth, 
And  all  her  fieriest  partisans — are  pale 
Before  my  star ! 

The  light  of  this  new  learning  wanes  and  dies : 
The  ghosts  of  Luther  and  Zuinglius  fade 
Into  the  deathless  hell  which  is  their  doom 
Before  my  star ! 

His  scoptre  shall  go  forth  from  Ind  to  Ind  ! 
His  sword  shall  hew  the  heretic  peoples  down ; 
His  faith  shall  clothe  the  world  that  will  be  his, 
Like  universal  air  and  sunshine  !  Open, 
Ye  everlasting  gates !    The  King  is  here  ! — 
My  star,  my  son  !" 

This  speech  is  entirely  different  from  anything  else 
in  the  volume,  and  vastly  excels  all  the  rest  in  spirit, 
elevation,  and  strength.  It  is  like  a  block  of  porphyry 
in  a  structure  of  freestone.  How  is  the  great  superi- 
ority of  this  single  passage  to  be  explained?  Prob- 
ably in  this  wise  :  The  legate,  Cardinal  Pole,  has  just 
terminated  his  first  interview  with  the  Queen  after 
his  arrival  in  England.  One  incident  of  that  inter- 
view is  thus  mentioned  by  Hume :  "  The  Queen's 
extreme  desire  of  having  issue  had  made  her  fondly 
give  credit  to  any  appearance  of  pregnancy ;  and 
when  the  legate  was  introduced  to  her,  she  fancied 
that  she  felt  the  embryo  stir  in  her  womb.  Her 
flatterers  compared  the  motion  of  the  infant  to  that 
of  John  the  Baptist,  who  leaped  in  his  mother's  belly 
at  the  salutation  of  the  Virgin.  Despatches  were 
immediately  sent  to  inform  foreign  courts  of  this 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


145 


event;  orders  were  issued  to  give  public  thanks; 
great  rejoicings  were  made  ;  the  family  of  the  young 
prince  was  already  settled,  for  the  Catholics  held 
themselves  assured  that  the  child  was  to  be  a  male ; 
and  Bonner,  Bishop  of  London,  made  public  prayers 
be  said,  that  heaven  would  please  to  render  him 
beautiful,  vigorous,  and  witty."  This  hint  was  suf- 
ficient for  the  laureate,  who  appears  to  be  always 
ready  to  "suck"  inspiration  from  any  source.  Like 
the  mother  of  John  the  Baptist,  Queen  Mary  should 
foretell ;  and  he  set  himself  to  absorb  the  spirit  of 
Elizabeth's  prophecy,  of  the  Virgin  Mary's  song,  and 
of  different  predictions  concerning  Christ.  When  to 
the  utmost  of  his  capacity  he  had  filled  himself  with 
this  spirit,  and  with  the  essence  of  the  language  in 
which  it  took  form,  he  wrote  this  monologue.  Such 
a  method  wrould  be  quite  in  keeping  with  his  manner 
of  composing  the  "  Idyls  of  the  King"  and  some 
other  things.  It  is  not  spoken  of  here  as  a  matter 
for  censure,  but  as  a  matter  of  explanation.  The 
rest  of  the  play  he  had  to  draw  from  narrative  prose, 
and  faithfully  enough  did  he  copy  the  original. 
Strictly  speaking  it  has  no  dramatic  intrigue,  at  any 
rate  none  whatever  invented  by  the  author ;  nor  has 
it,  consequently,  any  dramatic  action.  It  possesses 
no  quality  of  a  drama  except  the  external  form. 
There  is  an  attempt  at  effective  contrast  when  two 
crones  are  made  to  babble  irrelevantly  in  the  dialect 
of  their  county  while  the  burning  of  Cranmer  is 
supposed  to  go  on.  This  is  feeble,  but  it  is  the 
13* 


14G 


IIOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


strongest  dramatic  juxtaposition  in  the  volume.  It 
might  be  said  that  many  superfluous  personages  ap- 
pear, did  not  the  absence  of  any  intrigue  make  it 
impossible  to  determine  who  is  not  superfluous.  It 
might  also  be  alleged  that  the  work  is  not  artistically 
constructed,  is  not  well  defined  and  fairly  propor- 
tioned, did  not  the  want  of  any  plan  render  it 
impracticable  to  decide  what  are  its  shape  and  pro- 
portions. 

In  this  compilation  the  laureate  has  used  no  in- 
vention worthy  of  notice ;  at  most  he  has  displayed 
very  inferior  talents  for  construction.  Even  the  lan- 
guage falls  far  below  his  usual  level  in  poetic  quali- 
ties. Only  one  little  song  is  in  his  better  style,  and 
is  very  sweet.  It  shadows  forth  a  simple  and  mel- 
ancholy feeling.    Queen  Mary  sings  it : 

"  Hapless  doom  of  woman  happy  in  betrothing ! 
Beauty  passes  like  a  breath,  and  love  is  lost  in  loathing: 
Low,  my  lute ;  speak  low,  my  lute,  but  say  the  world  is 
nothing — 

Low,  lute,  low  ! 

"  Love  will  hover  round  the  flowers  when  they  first  awaken ; 
Love  will  fly  the  fallen  leaf,  and  not  be  overtaken ; 
Low,  my  lute  !    Oh  low,  my  lute  !  we  fade  and  are  for- 
saken— 

Low,  dear  lute,  low  !" 

In  such  work  as  that  contained  in  this  volume  he 
has  shown  himself  to  be  not  an  artist,  but  an  artisan. 
Generally  speaking,  his  artistic  powers  rarely  trans- 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


147 


cend  the  limits  of  an  embellisher's  occupation.  Even 
in  this  his  judgment  is  likely  enough  to  err ;  he  is 
too  lavish  with  his  ornamentation,  and  too  nearly 
overspreads  the  whole  surface.  He  is  not  an  archi- 
tect, but  a  decorator.  Yet  when  he  has  adorned 
with  sufficient  profusion  what  another  man  has  built, 
it  may  pass  for  his  own  edifice;  when  he  has  embel- 
lished a  commonplace  cottage  of  his  own  construction, 
it  may  pass  for  a  fairy  palace.  Measured  by  the 
standard  of  great  poets  he  lacks  their  essential  quali- 
ties. It  would  appear,  therefore,  that  even  in  these 
days  of  speculation,  no  man  has  received  so  great  an 
income  from  the  use  of  so  small  a  capital  as  has  Mr. 
Alfred  Tennyson. 


148 


HOW  THEY  STRfKE  ME, 


THE  POET  OF  THE  SIERRAS. 

Mr.  Joaquin  Miller's  new  poem,  entitled  "  The 
Ship  in  the  Desert/'  is  the  third  work  of  the  kind 
made  public  by  this  author;  the  first  having  at- 
tracted much  attention,  and  received  uncommon 
praise,  several  years  ago.  Such  merits  as  were  then 
magnified  by  a  kind  of  morning  halo,  and  were 
landed  not  only  for  what  they  were,  but  for  what 
they  promised  to  become ;  and  such  defects  as  were 
then  kindly  explained  away  as  rather  superficial  than 
radical,  more  apparent  than  real,  obscurities  or  re- 
fractions produced  by  the  mists  of  dawn,  must  now 
alike  be  judged  in  the  full  light  of  clear  day, 
stripped  of  all  excuses,  seen  as  they  are,  and  meas- 
ured by  an  equitable  standard. 

A  reader  of  the  new  volume,  who  opens  it  with 
agreeable  expectations,  excited  by  its  j^redecessors, 
must  feel  a  keen  disappointment.  The  first  strong 
impression  which  he  receives,  is  that  its  author  has 
made  no  observable  progress;  that  his  diction  has 
not  been  enriched ;  that  his  idea  of  form  has  not 
grown  more  definite ;  that  his  sensibility  to  harmo- 
nies and  discords  has  not  increased.  He  perceives 
no  poetic  or  artistic  development.    He  notes  a  want 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


1  19 


of  clearness  and  earnestness  of  purpose  ;  is  tantalized 
by  a  very  annoying  and  prolonged  succession  of  false 
beginnings,  a  provoking  number  of  boyish  feints; 
and  when,  at  length,  the  career  is  actually  com- 
menced, it  is  followed  with  no  steadiness  of  pace,  but 
is  run  by  fits  and  starts.  You  look  for  unity,  and 
you  find  fragments,  connected,  to  be  sure,  but  by 
discrepant  matter.  You  expect  to  feel  an  ever- 
present  and  dominating  design  ;  you  are  distracted 
by  incongruous  whims,  turned  hither  and  thither  by 
divers  aims,  and  confused  by  repetitions.  You  hope 
to  be  borne  on  a  constantly-swelling  and  ever-hasten- 
ing current ;  you  are  carried  round  and  round  in  idle 
eddies.  You  see  that  the  author  has  not  put  his  talent 
out  at  usury.  He  brings  it  time  and  again  without 
any  increase.  He  continues  to  offer  works  of  art  from 
which  art  is,  in  a  great  measure,  absent.  A  little 
thought,  certainly  a  little  reading,  might  have  taught 
him  "  that  images,  however  beautiful,  though  faith- 
fully copied  from  nature,  and  as  accurately  repre- 
sented in  words,  do  not  of  themselves  characterize 
the  poet.  They  become  proofs  of  original  genius  only 
so  far  as  they  are  modified  by  a  predominant  passion, 
or  by  associated  thoughts  or  images  awakened  by 
that  passion — when  a  human  and  intellectual  life  is 
transferred  to  them  from  the  poet's  own  spirit, 

'  "Which  shoots  its  being  through  earth,  sea,  and  air.'  " 

To  multiply  images  seems  to  be  Mr.  Miller's  chief 
intention,  without  reference  to  harmony  or  propor- 


150 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


tion,  without  much  regard  either  for  nature  or  proba- 
bility. He  is  ignorant  of,  or  indifferent  to,  the  man- 
ifestation of  the  truth  that  "  good  sense  is  the  body 
of  poetic  genius,  fancy  its  drapery,  motion  its  life, 
and  imagination  the  soul,  that  is  everywhere  and  in 
each,  and  forms  all  into  one  graceful  and  intelligent 
whole."  Even  when  dealing  with  swift  physical  move- 
ment his  poem  has  little  or  no  motion  ;  of  common 
sense  it  is  barren ;  of  fancy,  scant ;  and  what  has 
already  been  said  sufficiently  shows  that  it  lacks  a 
fusing,  unifying,  moulding  imagination. 

He  seems  to  be  conscious,  at  any  rate  in  some  small 
degree,  of  the  inadequacy  of  motive  expressed  in  his 
work,  the  lack  of  logical  connection,  the  very  dark 
obscurity  of  the  argument,  and  flippantly  intimates 
that  these  are  matters  with  which  he  will  not  trouble 
himself. 

"  And  why  did  these  same  sunburnt  men 
Let  Morgan  gain  the  plain,  and  then 
Pursue  him  to  the  utter  sea  ? 
You  ask  me  here  impatiently, 
And  I  as  pertly  must  reply : 
My  task  is  but  to  tell  a  tale ; 
To  give  a  wide  sail  to  the  gale ; 
To  paint  the  boundless  plain,  the  sky ; 
To  rhyme,  nor  give  a  reason  why." 

Logic  is  as  necessary  in  poetry  as  in  law.  "  No 
man  was  ever  yet  a  great  poet  without  being  at  the 
same  time  a  profound  philosopher,"  and  a  subtle 


THESE  A  UTHORS. 


151 


logician.  In  rhyme  without  reason,  however,  the 
promptings  of  Mr.  Miller's  intellectual  nature  find 
full  play.  He  avows  it,  and  his  poem  proves  it. 
Possibly,  through  indolence,  he  does  himself  great 
injustice ;  possibly  he  lacks  the  most  important  qual- 
ities, the  fundamental  elements  of  a  great  poet.  One 
example  of  the  confusion  which  results  from  the 
want  of  any  definite  plan  and  clear  logical  construc- 
tion in  his  poem,  may  be  found  in  the  fourth  chap- 
ter; in  the  first  part  of  which  he  indicates  a  beautiful 
girl,  as  she  is  rowed  up  the  river  Missouri,  much 
against  her  will : 

"  And  who  of  all  the  world  was  she  ? 
A  bride,  or  not  a  bride  ?    A  thing 
To  love  ?    A  prison'd  bird  to  sing  ? 
You  shall  not  know.    That  shall  not  be 
Brought  from  the  future's  great  profound 
This  side  the  happy  hunting  ground. 

"  I  only  saw  her,  heard  the  sound 
Of  murky  waters  gurgling  round 
In  counter  currents  from  the  shore, 
But  heard  the  long,  strong  stroke  of  oar 
Against  the  waters  gray  and  vast. 
I  only  saw  her  as  she  pass'd — " 

Through  two  or  more  pages  he  goes  on  repeating 
in  slightly  different  words  the  same  specifications  of 
this  girl's  appearance,  especially  lauding  her  eyes 
and  mouth ;  telling  how  he  loved  her 


152 


HOW  THEY  STB  IKK  ME, 


"  Above  the  hundred  seven  hills 
Of  dead  and  risen  old  new  Rome;" 

discussing  the  question  whether  she  loved  him,  and 
saving  again  and  again  that  "you  shall  not  know 
her  f9  and  then  he  finishes  the  chapter : 

"  I  dared  not  dream  she  loved  me.  Nay, 
Her  love  was  proud ;  and  pride  is  loth 
To  look  with  favor,  own  it  fond 
Of  one  the  world  loves  not  to-day — 
No  matter  if  she  loved  or  no, 
God  knows  1  loved  enough  for  both, 
And  knew  her  as  you  shall  not  know 
Till  you  have  known  sweet  death,  and  you 
Have  crossed  the  dark ;  gone  over  to 
The  great  majority  beyond." 

Now,  all  the  time  that  he  is  loving  this  girl  so 
devotedly  in  Rome,  and  declaring  that  he  will  not 
tell  you  who  she  is,  black  men  are  rowing  the  same 
girl  up  the  Missouri  river.  Should  you  ask  how  all 
this  is  to  be  reconciled  or  explained,  he  would  tell 
you  that  it  is  his  business  "to  rhyme,  nor  give  a 
reason  why."  Thus,  too,  he  begins  the  thirty-eighth 
chapter  of  his  work  with  these  lines : 

"  I  do  recall  some  sad  days  spent 
By  borders  of  the  Orient ;" 

and  goes  on  through  this  and  the  succeeding  chapter 
to  tell,  with  his  customary  repetitions,  of  various 
things  which  he  saw  in  the  East.    Nothing  in  these 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


153 


two  chapters  has  the  remotest  relation  to  anything 
else  in  his  poem.  As  much  matter  from  Paradise 
Lost,  or  from  the  History  of  John  Gilpin's  Ride, 
interpolated  in  the  same  place  would  have  been  no 
more  incongruous.  After  this  excursion  across  the 
Atlantic  and  the  greater  part  of  Europe,  he  resumes 
the  thread  of  his  story  and  finishes  it.  A  similar 
want  of  logical  perception,  or  of  its  use,  is  often 
shown  by  Mr.  Miller's  similes  : 

"  Away  upon  the  sandy  seas, 
The  gleaming,  burning,  boundless  plain, 
How  solemn-like,  how  still,  as  when 
The  mighty-minded  Genoese 
Drew  three  tall  ships  and  led  his  men 
From  land  they  might  not  meet  again." 

The  poem  is  as  deficient  in  depth  and  energy  as  it 
is  in  continuity  and  motion  of  thought ;  and  a  great 
authority  has  said  that  without  such  depth  and 
energy  other  poetic  characteristics  "could  scarce 
exist  in  a  high  degree,  and  (even  if  this  were  possi- 
ble) would  give  promises  only  of  transitory  flashes 
and  a  meteoric  power."  Such  flashes  and  such  me- 
teoric power  may  be  seen  in  Mr.  Miller's  work, 
together  with  much  that  is  weak,  childish,  and  com- 
monplace. For  specimens  of  the  vain  repetitions, 
the  puerilities,  and  the  lame  conclusions  with  which 
the  book  abounds,  read  the  concluding  lines : 

"  This  isle  is  all  their  own.    No  more 
The  flight  by  day,  the  watch  by  night. 
14 


154 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


Dark  In  a  twines  about  the  door 
The  scarlet  blooms,  the  blossoms  white, 
And  winds  red  berries  in  her  hair, 
And  never  knows  the  name  of  care. 

"  She  has  a  thousand  birds  ;  they  blow 
In  rainbow  clouds,  in  clouds  of  snow ; 
The  birds  take  berries  from  her  hand ; 
They  come  and  go  at  her  command. 

"  She  has  a  thousand  pretty  birds, 
That  sing  her  summer  songs  all  day ; 
Small  black-hoofed  antelope  in  herds, 
And  squirrels  bushy-tailed  and  gray, 
With  round  and  sparkling  eyes  of  pinkr 
And  cunning-faced  as  you  can  think. 

"  She  has  a  thousand  busy  birds ; 
And  is  she  happy  in  her  isle, 
With  all  her  feathered  friends  and  herds  ? 
For  when  has  Morgan  seen  her  smile  ? 

"  She  has  a  thousand  cunning  birds, 
They  would  build  nestings  in  her  hair ; 
She  has  brown  antelope  in  herds ; 
She  never  knows  the  name  of  care ; 
Why  then  is  she  not  happy  there  ? 

"  All  patiently  she  bears  her  part ; 
She  has  a  thousand  birdlings  there, 
These  birds  they  would  build  in  her  hair ; 
But  not  one  bird  builds  in  her  heart. 

"  She  has  a  thousand  birds  ;  yet  she 
Would  give  ten  thousand  cheerfully, 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


1 55 


All  bright  of  plume  and  loud  of  tongue, 
And  sweet  as  ever  trilled  or  sung, 
For  one  small  fluttered  bird  to  come 
And  sit  within  her  heart,  though  dumb. 

u  She  has  a  thousand  birds ;  yet  one 
Is  lost,  and  lo  !  she  is  undone. 
She  sighs  sometimes.    She  looks  away, 
And  yet  she  does  not  weep  or  say. 

"  She  has  a  thousand  birds.    The  skies 
Are  fashioned  for  her  paradise  ; 
A  very  queen  of  fairy  land, 
With  all  earth's  fruitage  at  command, 
And  yet  she  does  not  lift  her  eyes. 
She  sits  upon  the  water's  brink 
As  mournful  soul'd  as  you  can  think. 

"  She  has  a  thousand  birds  ;  and  yet 
She  will  look  downward,  nor  forget 
The  fluttered  white-winged  turtle-dove, 
The  changeful-throated  birdling,  love, 
That  came,  that  sang  through  tropic  trees, 
Then  flew  for  aye  across  the  seas. 

11  The  waters  kiss  her  feet ;  above 
Her  head  the  trees  are  blossoming, 
And  fragrant  with  eternal  spring. 
Her  birds,  her  antelope  are  there, 
Her  birds  they  would  build  in  her  hair : 
She  only  waits  her  birdling,  love. 
She  turns,  she  looks  along  the  plain, 
Imploring  love  to  come  again." 


156 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


So  the  poem  ends.  Why  Morgan  fled,  why 
Yasques  pursued,  why  Ina  pined,  you  are  not  told; 
and  if  you  ask,  the  author  will  "pertly"  answer 
that  his  "task"  is  "to  rhyme,  nor  give  the  reason 
why."  Of  this  flight  and  pursuit,  which  are  all  that 
can  in  any  way  and  by  any  stretch  of  courtesy  be 
called  a  plot,  you  get  no  idea  more  definite  and  clear 
than  is  your  knowledge  of  their  cause.  If  you  try 
to  guess  at  the  relation  of  his  personages,  he  gives 
you  no  aid,  but,  on  the  contrary,  does  the  most  he 
can  to  render  you  uncertain  and  your  conjectures 
vague.    It  is  his  business  to  rhyme,  not  to  reason. 

This  author  does  more  than  promise  "transitory 
flashes  and  meteoric  power he  exhibits  both.  In 
his  first  work  he  gave  pledges  that  he  might  become 
a  real,  even  a  great  poet.  That  he  has  disappointed 
so  many  expectations  still  seems  to  have  been  his 
own  fault.  He  appears  to  have  failed  of  great  ex- 
cellence through  a  lack  of  sincerity,  industry,  and  an 
inflexible  purpose.  He  is  therefore  so  much  the 
more  to  be  censured.  It  would  be  unjust  to  blame  a 
man  for  not  exceeding  his  powers.  He  who  trifles 
with  them,  and  with  those  whose  good  opinion  he 
courts,  can  hardly  be  too  severely  condemned.  To 
satisfy  the  necessities  of  his  rhyme,  Mr.  Miller  often 
resorts  to  the  readiest  makeshifts,  without  reference 
to  any  consistent  meaning,  occasionally  using  for  this 
purpose  some  familiar  collocation  of  words  that  is 
utterly  inapt,  as,  for  instance,  at  the  end  of  the  fol- 
lowing stanza : 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


Vol 


"  0  dark-eyed  Ina  !  All  the  years 
Brought  her  but  solitude  and  tears. 
Lo  !  ever  looking  out,  she  stood 
Adown  the  wave,  adown  the  wood, 
Adown  the  strong  stream  to  the  south, 
Sad-faced  and  sorrowful.    Her  mouth 
Pushed  out  so  pitiful.    Her  eyes 
Fill'd  full  of  sorrow  and  surprise." 

Why  surprise?  She  saw  nothing  but  the  un- 
changing waste  of  wood  and  water ;  she  gazed  on  it 
in  a  sad  reverie  without  perceiving  anything,  in  fact. 
What  surprised  her?  Sometimes,  too,  if  he  per- 
ceives any  significance  in  the  phrases  used  to  make 
up  his  verse  and  give  the  proper  sound  at  the  end, 
he  completely  fails  to  make  such  significance  evident, 
as  in  the  last  line  of  the  following  quotation  : 

"  A  right  foot  rested  on  the  dead, 

A  black  hand  reached  and  clutched  a  beard, 

Then  neither  prayed,  nor  dreamed  of  hope — 
A  fierce  face  reach'd,  a  fierce  face  peer'd — 
No  bat  went  whirling  overhead, 
No  star  fell  out  of  Ethiope." 

Why  should  a  star  fall  out  of  Ethiope?  That 
country  was  more  than  three  thousand  miles  away 
from  the  scene  described.  If  a  star  must  fall  on  the 
occasion,  it  would  most  probably  and  most  poetically 
have  been  one  that  could  see  what  was  going  on  there 
in  the  American  desert. 


158 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


It  is  hardly  worth  while  to  mention  minor  defects 
in  this  work,  some  imperfect  lines,  some  weak  rhymes, 
some  rough  versification,  some  improper  use  of  words. 
These  are  matters  which  in  a  nearly  perfect  poem 
should  receive  due  attention  ;  but  in  this  composition 
the  deficiencies  are  so  radical  that  no  degree  of  finish, 
no  amount  of  decoration,  no  handiwork  of  fancy 
could  hide  them.  It  does  not  reach  such  a  point  of 
excellence  in  form  and  substance  as  to  make  the 
reader  care  much  for  the  more  technical  faults.  And 
yet  the  book  holds  detached  passages  that  are  strong 
and  truly  poetic,  though  crude.  Some  of  them  may 
be  seen  in  the  quotations  below,  brought  together 
from  different  parts  of  the  volume.  Examine  them 
and  you  can  but  lament  that  Mr.  Miller  should  not 
more  earnestly  cultivate  his  powers  : 

"  What  strong  uncommon  men  were  these, 
These  settlers  hewing  to  the  seas  ! 
Great  horny-handed  men  and  tan  ; 
Men  blown  from  any  border  land  ; 
Men  desperate  and  red  of  hand, 
And  men  in  love  and  men  in  debt, 
And  men  who  lived  but  to  forget, 
And  men  whose  very  hearts  had  died, 
Who  only  sought  these  woods  to  hide 
Their  wretchedness,  held  in  the  van  ; 
Yet  every  man  among  them  stood 
Alone,  along  that  sounding  wood, 
And  every  man  somehow  a  man. 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


159 


"  A  race  of  unnamed  giants  these, 
That  moved  like  gods  among  the  trees, 
So  stern,  so  stubborn-browed,  and  slow, 
With  strength  of  black-maned  buSalo  ; 
And  each  man  notable  and  all, 
A  kingly  and  unconscious  Saul, 
A  sort  of  sullen  Hercules." 

"  They  tossed  the  forest  like  a  toy, 
That  great  forgotten  race  of  men, 
The  boldest  band  that  yet  has  been 
Together  since  the  siege  of  Troy." 

"  And  they  descended  and  did  roam 
Through  level'd  distances  set  round 
By  room.    They  saw  the  Silences 
Move  by  and  beckon  ;  saw  the  forms, 
The  very  heads  of  burly  storms, 
And  heard  them  talk  like  sounding  seas, 
On  unnamed  heights,  bleak-blown,  and  brown, 
And  torn  like  battlements  of  Mars, 
They  saw  the  darknesses  come  down, 
Like  curtains  loosen'd  from  the  dome 
Of  God's  cathedral,  built  of  stars." 

"  They  climbed  so  high  it  seem'd  eftsoon 
That  they  must  face  the  falling  moon, 
That  like  some  flame-lit  ruin  lay 
Thrown  down  before  their  weary  way." 

"Two  sullen  bullocks  led  the  line, 
Their  great  eyes  shining  bright  like  wine ; 


160 


110  W  TUFA'  STRIKE  ME, 


Two  sullen  captive  kings  were  they  ; 
That  had  in  time  held  herds  at  bay, 
And  even  now  they  crushed  the  sod 
With  stolid  sense  of  majesty, 
And  stately  stepp'd  and  stately  trod, 
As  if  'twas  something  still  to  be 
Kings  even  in  captivity." 

"  The  savage,  warlike  day  bent  low, 
As  reapers  bend  in  gathering  grain, 
As  archer  bending  bends  yew  bow, 
And  flushed  and  fretted  as  in  pain. 
Then  down  his  shoulder  slid  his  shield, 
So  huge,  so  awful,  so  blood-red 
And  batterd  as  from  battle-field  : 
It  settled,  sunk  to  his  left  hand, 
Sunk  down  and  down,  it  touch'd  the  sand, 
Then  day  along  the  land  lay  dead, 
Without  one  candle  at  his  head." 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


161 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  OF  CRIME. 

Attention  has  of  late  been  particularly  drawn  to 
the  writings  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  by  Mr.  G.  P. 
Lathrop's  book,  "A  Study  of  Hawthorne."  The 
author  brings  forward  the  results  of  much  thought 
upon  the  subject  of  his  meditations,  exhibits  good, 
though  rather  laborious,  writing  and  considerable 
analytic  power.  His  work  is  very  carefully  and, 
doubtless,  conscientiously  done ;  and  such  work  must 
always  have  a  certain  value  and  interest.  But,  as 
indicated  by  his  own  assertion,  Mr.  Lathrop  was  un- 
fitted to  make  an  impartial  study  of  his  author.  "  I 
do  not,"  says  he,  "  enter  upon  this  attempt  as  a  mere 
literary  performance,  but  have  been  assisted  in  it  by 
an  inward  impulse,  a  consciousness  of  sympathy  with 
the  subject,  which  I  may  perhaps  consider  a  sort  of 
inspiration.  My  guide  has  been  intuition,  confirmed 
and  seldom  confuted  by  research."  A  perfectly  im- 
partial verdict  or  decree  would  hardly  be  expected 
from  a  juryman  or  a  judge  who  should  seek  con- 
firmation of  his  intuitions  in  the  evidence  given 
during  the  trial  of  a  cause.  Mr.  Lathrop  seems  to 
have  had  two  eminent  intuitions :  one  to  the  effect 
that  Hawthorne  was  made  up  of  the  better  parts  of 


162 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


Milton  and  Bunyan ;  the  other  that  the  nobler 
qualities  of  Shakspeare  and  Goethe  were  combined 
in  him : 

"  Altogether,  if  one  could  compound  Bunyan  and  Milton, 
combine  the  realistic  imagination  of  the  one  with  the  other's 
passion  for  ideas,  pour  the  ebullient  undulating  prose  style 
of  the  poet  into  the  veins  of  the  allegorist's  firm,  leather- 
jerkined  English,  and  make  a  modern  man  and  author  of 
the  whole,  the  result  would  not  be  alien  to  Hawthorne." 

"  These  great  abilities,  subsisting  with  a  temper  so  modest 
and  unaffected,  and  never  unhumanized  by  the  abstract  en- 
thusiasm for  art,  place  him  on  a  plane  between  Shakespeare 
and  Goethe.  With  less  erudition  than  Goethe,  but  also 
less  of  the  freezing  pride  of  art,  he  is  infinitely  more  hu- 
mane, sympathetic,  holy.  His  creations  are  statuesquely 
moulded  like  Goethe's,  but  they  have  the  same  quick  music 
of  heart-throbs  that  Shakespeare's  have." 

In  one  respect  only  the  intellectual  power  of  Haw- 
thorne seems  to  have  been  unrestrained  by  any  de- 
finable limits.  His  vocabulary  appears  boundless. 
His  thoughts,  thoroughly  elaborated,  are  presented  to 
the  reader  in  their  utmost  development ;  exquisitely 
shaped,  cleanly  cut,  sharply  defined,  wanting  no- 
thing. A  reader  of  very  quick  intelligence  may, 
indeed,  find  this  perfectness  of  expression  somewhat 
wearisome.  He  must  passively  receive  the  exuberant 
and  wholly  matured  products  of  his  author,  foregoing 
the  charm  of  that  kind  of  co-operation  which  goes 
forward  when  the  reader's  reason  and  imagination 
are  called  upon  in  some  way  to  consummate  the  idea 


THESE  AUTHORS.  163 

begotten  in  his  mind  by  the  writer's  words.  Slower 
apprehensions  and  less  fruitful  fancies,  however,  ob- 
tain only  satisfaction  from  Hawthorne's  fulness  of 
utterance.  In  reading  all  his  writings,  you  will  per- 
ceive not  more  than  one  or  two  words  that  appear 
like  pets,  such,  for  instance,  as  "  immitigable  f  and 
this  rather  from  its  rarity  in  other  places  than  from 
its  frequency  here.  From  this  mastery  of  words, 
this  exquisite  taste  in  diction,  joined  with  a  keen 
sense  of  euphony  and  of  dulcet  rhythm,  comes  no 
small  part  of  this  author's  great  reputation.  His 
thoughts,  his  invention,  all  the  operations  of  his 
mind,  are  confined  within  certain  limits  that  can  be 
indicated  with  sufficient  exactness.  One  of  these 
boundaries  lies  outside  of  the  ordinary  range  of  actual 
and  visible  nature.  The  other  is  within  the  sphere 
of  reality,  but  only  comprises  so  much  of  this  as  may 
work,  or,  as  an  artist  would  say,  compose  harmoni- 
ously with  what  he  takes  from  beyond.  Or  perhaps 
it  would  be  more  exact  to  allege  that  he  protracts  the 
actual  into  the  unreal  so  skilfully  that  no  man  can 
discern  where  was  the  bourn  between  the  two.  Thi  s 
he  produces  effects  analogous  to  caricature.  Seizing 
upon  some  salient  trait  of  character,  he  exaggerates 
it  till  it  becomes  the  one  feature  on  which  the  eye 
rests,  and  is  an  index  of  the  whole  man.  He  takes 
care  so  to  mould  or  modify  the  rest  of  the  figure  as 
to  avoid  even  a  suggestion  of  monstrosity,  and  to 
preserve  so  much  of  natural  and  logical  relation  be- 
tween the  parts  that  the  individuality  and  consistency 


110  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


of  the  personage  so  far  as  indicated  shall  remain 
complete.  Generally  the  most  exaggerated  feature 
is  the  one  most  distinguished  for  ugliness,  visible  or 
invisible  to  common  perceptions.  With  more  than 
a  portrait-painter's  eye  he  discriminates  this  taint, 
which  no  one  even  suspected  till  it  was  brought  into 
view  by  his  firm,  delicate,  hyperbolic  brush.  When 
the  figure  is  completed,  it  is  so  conventionally  con- 
sistent as  a  whole  that  you  are  willing  to  accept  it  as 
the  genuine  man,  and  to  reject  the  other,  which  has 
hitherto  passed  current,  as  a  counterfeit.  In  working 
up  this  conventional  consistency  between  what  was 
before  manifest  and  what  the  painter  has  added, 
idealizing  the  original  after  his  fashion,  Hawthorne 
shows  his  greatest  artistic  skill.  Judging  from  this 
alone  you  would  say  he  was  a  consummate  artist. 
This  part  of  his  work  certainly  has  a  kind  of  resem- 
blance to  that  of  Bunyan ;  so  it  has  to  that  of  Swift 
and  De  Foe. 

It  may  well  be,  however,  that  some  parts  of  a 
statue  or  of  a  sculptured  group  may  show  the  results 
of  exquisite  manipulation,  while  the  whole  thing  may 
present  unshapeliness  and  incongruities.  Whether 
this  author's  productions,  considered  in  their  entirety, 
are  master-works  of  art  will  be  discussed  further  on. 
Plainly  enough,  a  moral  rather  than  an  artistic 
standard  was  foremost  in  his  mind.  By  this  fore- 
most standard  the  plans  of  his  personages  were  laid 
out ;  from  it  as  a  base  he  measured  all  the  degrees 
of  divergence  while  calculating  the  effect  of  following 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


165 


the  line  of  each;  by  it  he  determined  the  fate  of  all 
his  characters.  For  characters  he  composed,  men  and 
women  of  a  semi-transparent  kind,  whose  true  quali- 
ties are  visible,  however  degraded,  perverted,  or  de- 
formed ;  who  appear  as  they  are,  not  as  they  would 
seem  to  be.  Extending  beyond  what  should  be 
fleshly  limits,  their  essences  form  a  sort  of  spiritual 
atmosphere  about  them  which  is  but  a  part,  a  con- 
tinuation, of  themselves  ;  something  as  unsubstantial 
yet  as  visible  as  a  penumbra,  and  holding  its  relation 
to  the  thicker  shadows  which  they  are.  For,  in  a 
way,  the  denser  portions  of  them  are  like  shades. 
By  making  their  more  material  forms  appear  on  the 
debatable  ground  between  substance  and  shadow,  the 
real  is  more  easily  and  gradually  tempered  to  the 
unreal,  and  an  appearance  of  homogeneity  through- 
out the  whole  being  is  effected. 

But  do  not  think  that  these  characters  were  made 
simply  for  the  artistic  pleasure  of  creating.  Imprac- 
ticable as  some  of  them  may  seem,  they  wrere  designed 
for  a  practical  end.  They  are  mirrors.  Do  you  not 
see  yourself,  or  some  part  of  yourself,  in  some  one 
or  more  of  them  ?  Among  the  exaggerated  features 
which  characterize  each,  can  you  not  discern  your 
own  besetting  sin  drawTn  out,  perhaps  magnified  ?  Do 
you  not  observe,  as  never  before,  how  loathsome  is 
hypocrisy,  for  instance  ?  Can  you  not  now  perceive, 
no  matter  what  your  blindness  hitherto,  how  inevi- 
tably any  divergence  from  the  moral  law  leads  to 
misery  and  destruction?  how  the  first  step  in  a 

15 


1G6 


110  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


wrong  way  is  fatally  followed  by  a  second  and  a 
third,  and  bo  on  till  there  is  no  turning?  Are  you 
not  convinced  that  indulgence  in  devilish  passions 
will  make  you  a  kind  of  devil?  make  you  feel  like 
one,  act  like  one,  look  like  one?  and  that  in  the  end 
you  will  be  disappointed,  defeated,  punished  like 
one?  And  lest  so  much  of  the  lesson  be  not  effect- 
ive enough,  look  how  you  shall  be  laughed  at  in 
your  calamity,  and  mocked  when  your  fear  cometh. 
Behold  Judge  Pyncheon,  for  example.  Is  he  not  a 
worthy  man?  Does  he  not  sit  in  honorable  places? 
Has  he  not  been  blessed  with  wealth  and  comforts 
and  the  respect  of  his  kind  ?  Does  he  not  give  alms 
to  beggars  and  larger  donations  to  fashionable  chari- 
ties ?  Is  he  not  condescending  to  inferiors,  courteous 
to  equals,  reverential  to  superiors?  Has  not  his 
smile  shone  like  a  noonday  sun  along  the  streets  or 
glowed  like  a  household  fire  in  the  drawing-rooms 
of  his  private  acquaintance?  Is  it  not  a  fact  that 
"  neither  clergyman  nor  legal  critic,  nor  inscriber  of 
tombstones,  nor  historian  of  general  or  local  politics, 
would  venture  a  word  against  this  eminent  person's 
sincerity  as  a  Christian,  or  respectability  as  a  man, 
or  integrity  as  a  judge,  or  courage  and  faithfulness 
as  the  often-tried  representative  of  his  political 
party?"  But  we  know  him  better  than  do  his 
townsfolk.  We  have  seen  beneath  that  heavy  and 
reputable-looking  mask  of  flesh.  We  have  some 
knowledge  of  his  inmost  thoughts,  more  than  we 
shall  tell,  a  part  of  which  we  shall  insinuate,  not 


these  a  unions. 


167 


over  clearly  though,  so  that  we  may  keep  something 
enigmatical  always  before  you.  Where  is  the  Judge 
now?  Within  a  dingy,  darkening  room  in  yonder 
house  with  the  seven  gables.  Why  does  he  stay 
there  so  long?  The  time  appointed  for  that  most 
important  meeting  is  at  hand.  The  crowning  of  his 
ambition  depends  upon  his  presence  there.  His 
friends  are  waiting.  Why  does  he  not  come  out? 
Why  does  he  sit  hour  after  hour  in  the  huge  arm- 
chair with  his  watch  in  his  hand?  Why  gazes  he 
so  steadily  in  the  direction  of  its  dial,  though  the 
darkness  long  since  made  it  invisible?  Ah  !  all  this 
you  shall  know,  but  rather  dimly,  by  and  by.  Wait 
till  we  shall  have  laughed  at  him  and  mocked  him 
and  jeered  at  him  and  reviled  him  through  a  whole 
long  chapter  of  some  eighteen  octavo  pages.  There 
is  mystery  about  his  delay,  at  least  such  mystery  as 
an  author  can  make  by  exciting  and  not  gratifying 
your  curiosity.  But  while  your  curiosity  is  active 
you  will  be  attentive;  and  while  you  are  attentive 
we  will  preach  to  you,  in  our  own  way,  however. 
To  be  sure  our  way  is  somewhat  like  that  of  a  man 
whose  enemy  is  at  last  in  his  power,  and  who  can  now 
safely  wag  his  tongue  against  him.  But  the  sermon 
is  good  for  all  that,  though  Judge  Pyncheon  has  not 
heard  a  word  of  it.  At  any  rate  he  has  not  replied, 
or  changed  his  posture,  or  made  a  motion  even  to 
wipe  away  the  blood-red  stain  that  from  somewhere 
has  come  upon  his  hitherto  immaculate  bosom.  You 
may  think  there  is  a  kind  of  savagery  in  our  treat- 


168 


BOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


ment  of  this  eminent  personage ;  that  our  discourse, 
while  lie  is  so  passively  sitting  there,  better  befits  a 
barbaric  triumph  than  a  Christian  pulpit  or  the  tri- 
bunal of  a  moralist.  But — and  now  we  will  par- 
tially lift  the  mystery — note  that,  at  last,  we  have 
got  the  criminal,  hypocritical  Judge  down  ;  at  any 
rate  he  is  down.  He  can  be  hypocritical  no  more. 
He  is  dead ;  that  is  all  there  was  of  it ;  dead  by  a 
rush  of  blood  and  apoplexy.  Is  there  not  reason  for 
a  triumph  ? 

The  kind  of  fictitious  mystery  wrought  about  and 
exhibited  in  the  case  of  Judge  Pyncheon  is  one  of 
Hawthorne's  peculiar  and  his  most  characteristic 
means  of  exciting  his  reader's  imagination,  and  his 
own  also.  The  method  is  akin  to  that  with  which 
children  terrify  themselves  and  one  another.  He  wraps 
a  sheet  about  some  personage,  makes  him  hold  it 
aloft  with  upstretched  arms  to  give  the  appearance 
of  ghostly  height,  causes  him  to  gibber  and  squeak. 
Does  not  your  hair  rise  and  your  flesh  creep  a  little  ? 
His  does.  Like  a  child,  for  the  time  being,  he  half 
believes  in  the  actuality  of  the  phantom  he  has 
pieced  out ;  and  he  wins  enough  of  your  credence  to 
make  you  wonder  at  it.  Then,  like  a  child,  he  tears 
up  his  work,  perhaps  derides  it ;  for  he  is  not  with- 
out cynicism,  though  it  is  generally  held  in  check  by 
more  generous  feelings.  Mr.  Higginbotham — has 
he  been  murdered?  Was  it  really  he  that  passed  the 
toll  gate  just  now  on  horseback?  He  did  not  stop 
to  shake  hands  and  chat  a  little  as  usual ;  he  gravely 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


169 


nodded,  as  one  who  should  say,  "Charge  my  toll," 
and  went  on.  "  ( I  never  saw  a  man  look  so  yellow 
and  thin  as  the  squire  does/  continued  the  toll- 
gatherer.  i  Says  I  to  myself,  to-night,  he's  more  like 
a  ghost  or  an  old  mummy  than  good  flesh  and 
blood/  The  peddler  strained  his  eyes  through  the 
twilight,  and  could  just  discern  the  horseman  now 
far  ahead  on  the  village  road.  He  seemed  to  recog- 
nize the  rear  of  Mr.  Higginbotham ;  but  through 
the  evening  shadows,  and  amid  the  dust  from  the 
horse's  feet  the  figure  appeared  dim  and  unsubstan- 
tial, as  if  the  shape  of  the  mysterious  old  man  were 
faintly  moulded  of  darkness  and  gray  light.  Domin- 
icus  shivered."  You  do  not  quite  shiver.  Admit, 
however,  that  you  are  in  doubt.  Skeptical,  accord- 
ing to  reason,  you  yet  dare  not  positively  assert  that 
this  figure  is  Mr.  Higginbotham  himself  in  a  sheet 
woven  of  dust  and  twilight,  and  not  Mr.  Higgin- 
botham's  ghost ;  especially  since  you  have  been  told 
that,  wherever  he  goes,  this  gentleman  must  always 
be  at  home  by  a  certain  hour. 

Achieving  a  kind  of  effect,  like  that  which  is 
produced  by  supernatural  beings  without  the  actual 
use  of  such  existences,  is  this  author's  most  notice- 
able specialty.  His  method  of  accomplishing  it  is 
ingenious.  He  contrives  to  associate  with  some 
character  a  certain  feature  or  quality,  or  to  subject  a 
personage  to  some  law  which  superstition  has  made 
for  such  unearthly  entities,  or  with  which  it  has  en- 
dowed them.    A  ghost  must  be  home  at  a  given 

15* 


170 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


time;  so  must  Mr.  Higginbotham,  though,  when 
the  truth  is  known,  it  is  but  to  mind  his  business. 
Mephistopheles  is  sharp-faced  and  hump-shouldered; 
so  is  Mr.  Chillingwrorth.  Phantoms  are  dim  and 
not  clearly  defined ;  so  is  the  Spectre  of  the  Cata- 
combs. And  so  on.  To  be  plain  about  it,  this 
manner  of  treatment  produces,  not  mystery,  but 
mistiness,  seen  through  which  objects  appear  to  have 
unnatural  size,  or  unnatural  parts.  Clear  the  fog 
away,  so  that  their  outlines  can  be  plainly  discerned, 
and  they  will  assume  normal  proportions.  Or,  if 
you  still  choose  to  consider  it  a  mystery,  it  is  very 
different  from  that  which  Shakspeare  and  Bunyan 
created.  When  Bunyan  wished  to  make  a  giant  or 
a  fiend,  when  Shakspeare  wished  to  bring  up  a 
witch  or  a  ghost,  they  left  no  chance  for  a  question 
as  to  what  the  thing  was.  In  their  hands  enigma 
took  shape  and  individuality;  it  was  dramatic. 
Hawthorne  makes  it  only  theatric.  Something  an- 
alogous to  it,  as  employed  by  him,  may  be  seen  in 
places  where  melodramas  are  represented.  Snug,  the 
Joiner,  as  instructed  by  Bottom,  burlesqued  it :  "  If 
you  think  I  come  hither  as  a  lion,  it  were  pity  of  my 
life :  no,  I  am  no  such  thing ;  I  am  a  man  as  other 
men  are  :  and  then,  indeed,  let  him  name  his  name ; 
and  tell  them  plainly  he  is  Snug,  the  Joiner." 

Let  it  be  said,  however,  that  Hawthorne's  melo- 
dramatic incidents  and  appurtenances  are  much  more 
deeply  impressive  than  are  those  seen  at  the  theatre. 
Prepared  for  the  imagination  rather  than  for  the 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


171 


senses,  they  are  not  belittled,  rendered  ineffective,  or 
reduced  to  absurdity  by  attempts  to  make  them 
tangible.  His  characters  act  in  ideal  scenes;  and, 
with  imaginary  adjuncts,  they  present  to  fancy  this 
kind  of  theatric  effect  in  its  utmost  refinement.  It 
is,  indeed,  the  very  sublimation  of  melodrama.  But 
it  is,  none  the  less,  melodramatic  as  contradistin- 
guished from  dramatic.  That  this  author  might  not 
have  been  a  dramatic  poet  is  too  much  to  affirm; 
that  he  was  not  is  plain.  He  failed  to  manifest  the 
most  essential  qualities  of  such  an  artist.  Dramatic 
juxtapositions,  such  as  may  be  found  in  "The  Scarlet 
Letter,"  for  instance,  do  not  constitute  a  dramatic 
work.  The  form,  the  complication,  the  proper 
action,  are  wanting.  Or,  if  the  complication  be 
there,  it  lacks  closeness,  what  may  be  called  contem- 
porariness,  progression,  a  climacteric  and  satisfactory 
undoing.  It  needs  motive  power  and  its  resultant 
movement.  It  is  rather  passive  than  active.  It  is 
the  product  of  a  meditative,  not  a  practical,  man  ; 
and  the  true  dramatist  is,  notably,  practical.  It  is 
as  if,  at  what  should  be  the  dramatic  starting  point, 
all  the  characters  had  been  chloroformed  into  partial 
inaction,  and  were  undergoing  a  process  of  vivisec- 
tion ;  or,  rather,  that  they  were  made  the  subjects  of 
an  experiment,  that,  in  their  different  organisms,  the 
man  of  science  might  note  the  subtle  operations  of 
poison.  The  personages  do  not  act :  they  suffer. 
This  mode  of  treatment  is  directly  opposed  to  that 
of  the  dramatic  poet. 


172 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


The  strongest  bent  of  Hawtho/ne's  mind  was 
toward  analysis,  not  synthesis;  to  study  results,  not 
to  operate  causes.  Even  the  semi-supernatural  addi- 
tions which  he  applies  to  some  of  his  characters  are 
used  as  chemists  employ  certain  agents,  the  more 
easily  and  distinctly  to  effect  a  separation  of  elements, 
that  the  base  of  each  particular  compound  may  be 
completely  eliminated  and  examined.  Most  of  his 
works  were  produced  by  processes  similar  to  those 
of  analytic  chemistry.  It  would  appear  that  during 
his  somewhat  retired  and  meditative  life  he  never 
freed  himself  from  the  strong  impressions  made  upon 
his  mind  when  a  boy  by  the  legends,  traditions,  and 
history  of  his  native  town  ;  and  that  his  method  was 
to  revive  these  impressions  in  all  their  force  by  be- 
coming again  a  little  child  in  feeling,  after  a  plan 
which  Macaulay  prescribes  for  great  poets,  and  then 
to  turn  them  to  account  with  all  the  matured  skill 
and  intellectual  power  of  an  experienced  man. 
Crude  matter  gathered  by  the  infant  was  by  the 
adult  passed  through  an  alembic.  The  result  is  a 
kind  of  quintessence.  The  Black  Man  in  the  forest, 
the  night  rides,  cackling  and  gibbering  of  the  witches, 
the  haunting  terrors  of  Gallows  Hill,  the  Indians 
lurking  in  the  shadows  and  in  the  twilight,  the 
prowling  wolves,  and  especially  that  wolf's  head 
nailed  to  the  meeting-house,  with  the  splashes  of 
blood  beneath,  at  thoughts  of  which,  doubtless,  he 
had  often,  when  a  child,  drawn  the  bedclothes  tight 
over  his  head,  and  many  other  things,  all  germinated 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


173 


in  the  favoring  soil  of  his  imagination  and  grew  and 
brought  forth  raw  material  for  distillation. 

Tracing  the  course  and  eifect  of  some  moral  poison 
was  his  chief  study;  warning  mankind  against  it,  his 
literary  business.  To  demonstrate  their  truth  and 
make  his  warnings  more  impressive,  he  brings  his 
subjects  and  goes  through  with  his  prepared  experi- 
ments before  you.  Hester  Prynne  is  contaminated 
by  crime ;  Dimmesdale  is  tainted  by  crime  and  hy- 
pocrisy ;  Chillingworth  is  envenomed  by  revenge ; 
Judge  Pyncheon  by  an  inherited  virus,  breaking  out 
afresh  in  him  ;  Miriam  by  some  shadow  of  wrong- 
doing, and  by  a  momentary  consent  to  felony; 
Zenobia  by  some  great  indiscretion  ;  Hollingsworth 
by  one  idea,  an  overruling  purpose  which,  in  the 
name  of  charity,  makes  him  most  uncharitable ;  the 
Man  of  Adamant  by  bigotry ;  the  Seeker  for  the 
Great  Carbuncle  by  avarice,  and  so  on.  His  con- 
scious duty  or  his  most  subtle  pleasure  was  to  make 
known  and  elucidate,  in  a  dusky  way,  the  workings 
and  fatal  results  of  wickedness,  the  kind  of  necessity 
which  springs  from  wrong-doing,  and  its  all-pervad- 
ing blight.  He  seems  ever  ready  to  cry  out,  "  Woe 
is  unto  me  if  I  preach  not  this  gospel !"  "  Would 
that  I  had  a  folio  to  write,"  he  exclaims,  "  instead 
of  an  article  of  a  dozen  pages  !  Then  might  I  ex- 
emplify how  an  influence  beyond  our  control  lays  its 
strong  hand  on  every  deed  we  do,  and  weaves  its 
consequences  into  an  iron  tissue  of  necessity."  "Ah  ! 
now  I  understand,"  says  Hilda,  "  how  the  sins  of 


174 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


generations  past  have  created  an  atmosphere  of  sin 
for  those  that  follow.  While  there  is  a  single  guilty 
person  in  the  universe,  each  innocent  one  must  feel 
his  innocence  tortured  by  that  guilt."  And  again, 
in  the  Old  Manse,  he  lifts  up  his  voice : 

"  Come,  all  ye  guilty  ones,  and  rank  yourselves  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  brotherhood  of  crime.  This,  indeed,  is 
an  awful  summons.  I  almost  tremble  to  look  at  the  strange 
partnerships  that  begin  to  be  formed,  reluctantly,  but  by 
the  invincible  necessity  of  like  to  like  in  this  part  of  the 
procession.  A  forger  from  the  State  prison  seizes  the  arm 
of  a  distinguished  financier.  How  indignantly  does  the 
latter  plead  his  fair  reputation  upon  'Change,  and  insist 
that  his  operations,  by  their  magnificence  of  scope,  were 
removed  into  quite  another  sphere  of  morality  than  those 
of  his  pitiful  companion  !  But  let  him  cut  the  connection 
if  he  can.  Here  comes  a  murderer  with  his  clanking 
chains,  and  pairs  himself — horrible  to  tell — with  as  pure 
and  upright  a  man,  in  all  observable  respects,  as  ever  par- 
took of  the  consecrated  bread  and  wine.  He  is  one  of 
those,  perchance  the  most  hopeless  of  all  sinners,  who  prac- 
tice such  an  exemplary  system  of  outward  duties  that  even 
a  deadly  crime  may  be  hidden  from  their  own  sight  and 
remembrance  under  this  unreal  frostwork.  Yet  he  now 
finds  his  place.  Why  do  that  pair  of  flaunting  girls,  with 
the  pert,  affected  laugh  and  the  sly  leer  at  the  bystanders, 
intrude  themselves  into  the  same  rank  with  yonder  decor- 
ous matron  and  that  somewhat  prudish  maiden  ?  Surely 
these  poor  creatures,  born  to  vice  as  their  sole  and  natural  in- 
heritance, can  be  no  fit  associates  for  women  who  have  been 
guarded  round  about  by  all  the  proprieties  of  domestic  life, 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


175 


and  who  could  not  err  unless  they  first  created  the  oppor- 
tunity. Oh,  no ;  it  must  be  merely  the  impertinence  of 
those  unblushing  hussies,  and  we  can  only  wonder  how 
such  respectable  ladies  should  have  responded  to  a  sum- 
mons that  was  not  meant  for  them.  Nothing  is  more 
remarkable  than  the  various  deceptions  by  which  guilt  con- 
ceals itself  from  the  perpetrator's  conscience,  and  oftenest, 
perhaps,  by  the  splendor  of  its  garments.  Statesmen, 
rulers,  generals,  and  all  men  who  act  over  an  extensive 
sphere,  are  most  liable  to  be  deluded  in  this  way  ;  they 
commit  wrong,  devastation,  and  murder  on  so  grand  a 
scale  that  it  impresses  them  as  speculative  rather  than  ac- 
tual ;  but  in  our  procession  we  find  them  linked  in  detest- 
able conjunction  with  the  meanest  criminals  whose  deeds 
have  the  vulgarity  of  petty  details.  Here  the  effect  of  cir- 
cumstance and  accident  is  done  away,  and  a  man  finds  his 
rank  according  to  the  spirit  of  his  crime,  in  whatever  shape 
it  may  have  been  developed." 

However  veiled  in  allegory,  or  varied  in  expres- 
sion by  tones  of  insinuation,  innuendo,  or  irony,  this 
is  the  burden  of  his  thought,  the  theme  of  his  dis- 
course. Doubtless,  the  desire  to  unfold  it  in  a  folio 
spurred  him  to  write  his  longer  works,  the  romances. 
Throughout  them  all  it  is  the  underlying  motive. 
Running  through  and  with  this,  as  a  kind  of  obli- 
gate accompaniment,  is  a  secondary  theme  that  lias 
been  treated  by  many,  but  rarely  with  more  subtle 
effect.  It  is  plainly  enough  indicated  by  the  Italian 
organ-grinder  and  his  puppets  : 

"  The  Italian  turned  a  crank ;  and,  behold !  every  one 


176 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


of  these  small  individuals  started  into  the  most  curious 
activity.  The  cobbler  wrought  upon  a  shoe ;  the  black- 
smith hammered  his  iron ;  the  soldier  waved  his  glittering 
blade  ;  the  lady  raised  a  tiny  breeze  with  her  fan  ;  the  jolly 
toper  swigged  lustily  at  his  bottle;  a  scholar  opened  his 
book,  with  eager  thirst  for  knowledge,  arid  turned  his  head 
to  and  fro  along  the  page ;  the  milkmaid  energetically 
drained  her  cow ;  and  a  miser  counted  gold  into  his  strong 
box — all  at  the  same  turning  of  a  crank.  Yes,  and  moved 
by  the  self-same  impulse,  a  lover  saluted  his  mistress  on 
her  lips !  Possibly  some  cynic,  at  once  merry  and  bitter, 
had  desired  to  signify,  in  this  pantomimic  scene,  that  we 
mortals,  whatever  our  business  or  amusement, — however 
serious,  however  trifling — all  dance  to  one  identical  tune, 
and,  in  spite  of  our  ridiculous  activity,  bring  nothing  finally 
to  pass.  For  the  most  remarkable  aspect  of  the  affair  was, 
that  at  the  cessation  of  the  music,  everybody  was  petrified, 
at  once,  from  the  most  extravagant  life  into  dead  torpor. 
Neither  was  the  cobbler's  shoe  finished,  nor  the  black- 
smith's iron  shaped  out;  nor  was  there  a  drop  less  of  brandy 
in  the  toper's  bottle,  nor  a  drop  more  of  milk  in  the  milk- 
maid's pail,  nor  one  additional  coin  in  the  miser's  strong 
box,  nor  was  the  scholar  a  page  deeper  in  his  book.  All 
were  precisely  in  the  same  condition  as  before  they  made 
themselves  so  ridiculous  by  their  haste  to  toil,  to  enjoy,  to 
accumulate  gold,  and  to  become  wise.  Saddest  of  all, 
moreover,  the  lover  was  none  the  happier  for  the  maiden's 
granted  kiss." 

Thus,  the  limitations  of  his  work  are  distinctly 
enough  designated.  Largely  speaking,  he  wrought 
upon  and  aimed  to  illustrate  but  one  subject.  He 


THESE  A  UTHORS. 


177 


was  rather  one-sided  than  many-sided.  He  was  like 
a  dark  lantern,  shining  only  in  one  direction,  and 
there  not  so  much  to  light  up  space  as  to  make 
shadows  visible.  Clearly  and  minutely  as  his  indi- 
vidual thoughts  are  worded,  his  deeper  meaning  is 
not  always  obvious.  He  purposely  enshrouds  it,  or 
purposely  leaves  it  enshrouded  in  mists,  as,  for  ex- 
ample, in  "The  Marble  Faun."  Whether  this  qual- 
ity is  the  consequence  of  design  or  not  he  seems  at 
any  rate  conscious  of  it,  and,  in  one  place,  at  least, 
suggests  an  excuse  for  it :  "  *  It  is  true,  I  have  an 
idea  of  the  character  you  endeavor  to  describe  ;  but 
it  is  rather  by  dint  of  my  own  thought  than  your 
expression.'  '  That  is  unavoidable/  observed  the 
sculptor,  '  because  the  characteristics  are  all  nega- 
tive/ "  This  quality  may  be  agreeable,  even  fasci- 
nating to  some  persons ;  but  most  readers  prefer  not 
to  be  left  in  the  dark  and  forced  to  guess  as  to  the 
meaning  of  an  author. 

It  is  hardly  to  be  conceived  that  a  writer  possessed 
by  this  overruling  purpose  to  study  and  lay  bare 
the  under-currents  of  crime,  to  follow  "the  policy 
of  our  ancestors"  which,  according  to  him,  was  "  to 
search  out  even  the  most  secret  sins,  and  expose 
them  to  shame,  without  fear  or  favor,  in  the  broad- 
est light  of  the  noonday  sun who  felt  that  "  the 
most  desirable  mode  of  existence  might  be  that  of  a 
spiritualized  Paul  Pry,  hovering  invisible  round  man 
and  woman,  witnessing  their  deeds,  searching  into 
their  hearts,  borrowing  brightness  from  their  felicity, 
16 


178 


110  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


and  shade  from  their  sorrow,  and  retaining  no  emo- 
tion peculiar  to  himself;"  whose  mental  operations 
and  methods  are  of  the  class  indicated  in  the  fore- 
going examination — it  is  hardly  to  be  conceived  that 
the  works  of  such  a  writer  should  be  models  of  art. 
His  thoughts  and  imagination  are  not  occupied  in 
designing  the  perfection  of  beauty,  but  in  discover- 
ing its  imperfections.  His  enjoyments  are  found  in 
investigating  the  ruin,  not  in  building  the  temple. 
He  handles  the  spade,  not  the  trowel ;  the  scalpel 
rather  than  the  chisel.  He  is  an  artist  only  so  far 
as  a  scientific  searcher  and  demonstrator  is  an  artist 
when  he  sketches  and  colors  specimens  and  relics  and 
conditions,  and  uses  these  illustrations  to  elucidate 
his  lectures.  Strictly  speaking,  his  romances  lack 
the  very  essentials  of  art,  form  and  congruity.  The 
action  is  arrested  at  any  moment,  and  for  any  length 
of  time,  that  the  author  may  read  an  essay,  or 
discuss  the  results  of  his  analyses  in  a  lecture. 
"  The  Marble  Faun,"  for  instance,  is  rather  a  series 
of  mixed  dissertations  on  Italian  art,  Italian  nature, 
and  the  illuminating  and  developing  power  of  sin, 
than  a  novel.  The  others  are  more  or  less  like  unto 
it.  To  be  sure  there  are  figures  in  them.  But  they 
are  employed  as  are  the  lecturer's  mummies,  mani- 
kins, and  speaking  machines ;  by  means  of  them  he 
more  conveniently  and  impressively  expounds  his 
theories.  Possibly  they  may  be  living  persons,  but 
the  light  is  purposely  so  dim  that  you  cannot  be 
certain  of  it. 


THESE  A  UTHORS. 


In  managing  lights  this  master  of  melodrama 
shows  his  greatest  artistie  faculty,  as  has  been  inti- 
mated. Aside  from  the  skill  manifested,  he  in  this 
way  works  out  effects  carefully  designed,  and  con- 
veys to  others  something,  intangible  and  shapeless, 
indeed,  but  yet  something,  which  is  a  unique  product 
of  his  imagination.  "  I  have  sometimes,"  says  he, 
"produced  a  singular  and  not  unpleasing  effect,  so  far 
as  my  own  mind  was  concerned,  by  imagining  a  train 
of  incidents  in  which  the  spirit  and  mechanism  of 
the  fairy  legend  should  be  combined  with  the  char- 
acter and  manners  of  familiar  life."  In  achieving 
combinations  analogous  to  this  his  greatest  work  has 
been  done.  To  make  them  appear  homogeneous, 
masterly  skill  in  handling  lights  and  shadows  is  re- 
quired. In  adroit  use  of  what  a  painter  might  call 
chiaro-oscuro  he  is  without  a  rival.  But  such  inge- 
nuity does  not  alone  constitute  a  painter.  Much  that 
is  picturesque,  sometimes  exquisitely  so,  may  be  found 
in  his  writings.  But,  viewing  his  works  largely,  yon 
miss  the  potent  forming  hand  of  the  creative  artist. 
That  Hawthorne  might  have  been  such  is  possible ; 
that  he  manifests  many  qualities  that  go  with  forma- 
tive power  is  plain.  But  the  word  that  calls  spheres 
from  chaos  is  wanting.  He  is  rather  a  conjuror  than 
a  creator ;  he  does  not  make — he  evokes.  He  is  not 
so  much  like  Shakspeare  as  he  is  like  Shakspeare's 
witches.  He  does  not  say,  "  Let  me  make  man," 
but;  with  some  reader  in  mind,  he  mutters, — 


180 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


"Show  his  eyes  and  grieve  his  heart. 
Come  like  shadows,  so  depart!" 

and  straightway,  but  solemn-paced  and  slow,  the 
shades  appear,  linger,  whisper  together,  and  vanish. 
All  this  demonstrates  power  of  a  very  extraordinary 
kind  ;  it  is,  indeed,  unique.  But  it  is  not  the  power 
of  a  maker. 

His  fancy  is  delicate,  active,  charming,  but  not  ro- 
bust; and  he  is  not  so  much  its  master  as  its  follower. 
Yet  it  has  vigor  enough  to  give  a  poetic  turn  to  many 
of  his  thoughts,  and  to  impart  a  poetic  tinge  to  much 
of  his  work.  His  humor  is  generally  tempered  with 
sarcasm ;  it  is  rarely  genial,  sometimes  grim,  always 
subtle.  A  chiseller  of  sepulchral  monuments  tells 
him  how  the  husband,  for  whom  a  wife  had  ordered 
a  gravestone,  suddenly  returned  alive  and  well. 
"  i  And  how/  inquired  I,  'did  his  wife  bear  the  shock 
of  joyful  surprise?'  4  Why/  said  the  old  man,  deep- 
ening the  grin  of  a  death's  head  on  which  his  chisel 
was  just  then  employed,  1 1  really  felt  for  the  poor 
woman ;  it  was  one  of  my  best  pieces  of  marble — 
and  to  be  thrown  away  on  a  living  man  V  "  What 
he  says  in  the  preface  to  "  Twice  Told  Tales"  is,  in 
a  greater  or  less  degree,  true  of  all  his  works  : 

"  They  have  the  pale  tint  of  flowers  that  blossom  in  too 
retired  a  shade — the  coolness  of  a  meditative  habit,  which 
diffuses  itself  through  the  feeling  and  observation  of  every 
sketch.  Instead  of  passion,  there  is  sentiment ;  and,  even 
in  what  purport  to  be  pictures  of  actual  life,  we  have  alle- 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


181 


gory,  not  always  so  warmly  dressed  in  its  habiliments  of 
flesh  and  blood,  as  to  be  taken  into  the  reader's  mind  with- 
out a  shiver.  Whether  from  lack  of  power  or  an  uncon- 
querable reserve,  the  author's  touches  have  often  an  effect 
of  tameness  ;  the  merriest  man  can  hardly  contrive  to  laugh 
at  his  broadest  humor;  the  tenderest  woman,  one  would 
suppose,  will  hardly  shed  warm  tears  at  his  deepest  pathos. 
The  book,  if  you  would  see  anything  in  it,  requires  to  be 
read  in  the  clear,  brown,  twilight  atmosphere  in  which  it 
was  written  ;  if  opened  in  the  sunshine,  it  is  apt  to  look 
exceedingly  like  a  volume  of  blank  pages." 

That  all  manifestations  of  enthusiasm  should  be 
wanting  in  the  writings  of  a  man  so  given  to  medi- 
tation is  not  remarkable,  but  rather  a  thing  of  course. 
Aside  from  internal  testimony,  sufficient  evidence 
exists  to  prove  that  he  pondered  long  and  deeply  on 
all  subjects  treated  by  his  pen,  and  that  none  of  his 
productions  were  hastily  or  immaturely  brought  into 
the  world.  In  this  lies  at  least  a  partial  explanation 
of  the  secret  of  his  exquisite  style. 

His  taste,  however,  was  sometimes  at  fault;  not 
noticeably  as  to  matters  of  expression,  though  at  rare 
intervals  he  uses  some  word  or  gives  some  word  a 
use  not  sanctioned  by  the  best  authorities;  but  in 
collocation  of  incidents  and  suggestions,  as  when  he 
makes  Holgrove  declare  his  love  for  Phebe  and  Phebe 
respond  as  a  lover  would  have  her,  almost  in  the 
same  moment  that  the  suitor  has  told  her  of  Judge 
Pyncheon's  death,  and  while  the  body  of  that  ex- 
magistrate  still  sits  in  the  next  room  staring  at  the 

16* 


182 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


watch  in  its  hand.  Rarely,  though,  does  he  shock 
the  reader  in  this  way. 

Dumas  called  himself  a  dramatic  poet ;  Hawthorne 
claimed  to  be  a  writer  of  fiction.  Both  were  about 
equally  near  the  truth.  Hawthorne  invented  so 
much  fiction  as  should  serve  to  illustrate  his  doc- 
trines; and  he  invented  it  for  that  purpose.  It  held 
a  secondary  rank  in  his  thoughts  and  in  his  affec- 
tions, though  it  is  probable  that  he  was  not  aware 
of  the  fact.  He  was,  indeed,  not  a  dramatic  poet? 
not  a  novelist,  not  a  historian ;  he  was  a  moralist, 
a  philosophic  moralist,  calling  upon  history,  fiction, 
and  poetry  to  illuminate  and  enforce  his  tenets.  As 
an  ingenious  moral  philosopher  and  essayist,  render- 
ing his  teachings  impressive  by  the  use  of  fables 
more  or  less  elaborate,  he  may  well  take  rank  with 
the  most  elegant  and  accomplished  writers  of  his 
class. 

He  is  emphatically  an  American  author,  even  in 
the  common  and  narrower  sense  of  that  phrase.  He 
has  embellished  the  legends,  traditions,  and  early 
history  of  his  native  State,  and  given  to  certain  places 
a  classical  interest.  He  deserved  well  of  his  coun- 
trymen, and  his  name  is  worthily  held  in  honor 
among  them. 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


183 


•  A  MAN  OF  TASTE. 


Me.  Henry  James,  Jr.,  has  written  two  sizeable 
books,  which  are  valuable  if  not  unique  additions  to 
our  American  literature.  One  is  entitled,  "A  Pas- 
sionate Pilgrim  and  Other  Tales;"  the  other 
"Transatlantic  Sketches."  The  first  comprises  six 
stories.  Of  these  the  one  named  in  the  title  is,  per- 
haps, the  best,  though  all  are  interesting,  and  only 
one  seems  unworthy  of  its  associates  in  the  volume, 
namely,  "  The  Romance  of  Certain  Old  Clothes." 
This  appears  to  lack  the  genial  inspiration  and,  in 
its  catastrophe,  the  good  taste  which  all  the  others 
manifest;  and  alone,  in  all  the  contents  of  the  two 
books,  it  suggests  immature  production,  or  the  result 
of  a  matter-of-fact  and  uncongenial  business-like 
attempt  to  make  something  for  the  market.  Pos- 
sibly, however,  its  appearance  here  is  advantageous, 
in  so  far  as  it  serves  to  produce  a  vivid  contrast  by 
which  the  delicate  and  artistic  completeness  of  the 
other  tales  is  more  prominently  brought  out.  The 
author  everywhere  shows  an  unusual  acquaintance 
with  his  own  powers,  and  easy  mastery  of  them. 
Thought  and  style  are  alike  gracefully  sustained, 
and  the  diction  is  so  uniformly  fit,  forcible,  and  ele- 


184 


HOW  TUFA'  STRIKE  ME, 


gant,  that  to  notice  some  of  the  few  lapses  which  occur 
may  appear  hypercritical.  Yet  the  general  excel- 
lence  makes  faults  conspicuous  that  would  otherwise 
be  regarded  as  venial  or  escape  attention  altogether. 

In  a  style  like  that  indicated  such  phrases  as  "the 
white  cravat  of  the  period/'  "an  Englishman  of  the 
period/'  "some  highly  improved  projectile  of  the 
period/'  "  the  hat  of  the  period,"  are,  to  say  the  least, 
inelegant,  and,  especially  if  they  recur  not  infre- 
quently, are  likely  to  give  readers  of  refined  and 
sensitive  taste — the  very  class  who  will  most  enjoy 
reading  these  books — a  sense  of  being  suddenly  and 
unhandsomely  let  down.  So  of  the  Gallicism  that 
many  writers  are  trying  to  pass  oil  for  good  English, 
the  use  of  the  painfully  general  "  one"  in  place  of 
some  well  individualized  and  known  English  pro- 
noun.   For  instance : 

"It  is  a  pleasure  that  doubles  one's  horizoD,  and  one  can 
scarcely  say  whether  it  enlarges  or  limits  one's  impression 
of  the  city  proper." 

"And  the  work  has  a  deceptive  air  of  being  one  of  their 
sturdy  bequests,  which  helps  one  to  drop  a  sigh  over  Italy's 
long,  long  yesterday." 

,  "  One  would  like,  after  five  months  in  Rome,  to  be  able 
to  make  some  general  statement  of  one's  experience,  one's 
gains.  It  is  not  easy.  One  has  a  sense  of  a  kind  of  passion 
for  the  place,  and  of  a  large  number  of  gathered  impressions. 
Many  of  these  have  been  intense,  momentous,  but  one  has 
trodden  on  the  other,  and  one  can  hardly  say  what  has  be- 
come of  them." 


THESE  A  UTHORS. 


185 


"  One  cannot  describe  the  beauty  of  the  Italian  lakes,  nor 
would  one  try,  if  one  could." 

"  But  inns  and  streets  in  Italy  are  the  vehicles  of  half 
one's  knowledge ;  if  one  has  no  fancy  for  their  lessons,  one 
may  burn  one's  note-book." 

"After  all,  one  says  to  one's  self,  as  one  turns  away  " 

It  is  safe  to  assert  that  a  sense  of  euphony  alone 
would  keep  this  author  from  using  any  other  word 
so  inelegantly,  to  say  nothing  of  such  a  sentence  as 
this  :  "  Many  of  these  have  been  intense,  momentous, 
but  one  has  trodden  on  the  other,  and  one  can  hardly 
say  what  has  become  of  them,"  where  the  shifting 
significance  of  the  term  gives  the  reader  a  suggestion 
of  being  paltered  with  by  verbal  jugglery. 

In  looking  through  these  citations  the  expression, 
"It  is  a  pleasure  that  doubles  one's  horizon,"  may 
have  struck  the  discriminating  mind  as,  at  least, 
ambiguous.  It  is  rather  commonly  assumed  by 
persons  who  affect  to  have  no  personal  knowl- 
edge of  the  fact,  that  certain  pleasures  invariably 
have  a  tendency  not  only  to  double  the  horizon 
but  to  multiply  the  stars  and  likewise  to  render 
both  very  unsteady,  even  vacillating.  The  gene- 
ral sobriety  of  the  author's  work  would  indicate 
that  he  had  no  such  pleasure  in  his  head  when  he 
wrote.  The  words  are,  nevertheless,  indiscreetly 
chosen. 

Ambiguities  and  obscurities,  as  well  as  inadequa- 
cies of  expression,  are  so  uncommon  in  these  books 
that  those  which  appear  are  all  the  more  displeasing 


186 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


and  inexcusable  since  the  writer  has  plainly  shown 
that  they  might  have  been  avoided.  Two  only  of 
these  rare  defects  will  be  particularly  noted  and 
illustrated  in  the  following  quotations: 

"  There  is  a  distinct  amenity,  however,  in  my  experience 
of  Italy,  and  I  shall  probably,  in  the  future,  not  be  above 
sparing  a  light  regret  to  several  of  the  hours  of  which  the 
one  I  speak  of  was  composed." 

This  would  seem  to  indicate  a  general  involution 
and  confusion  of  horizons,  and  great  indistinctness 
in  the  view,  or  in  the  vision,  generally: 

"  I  shall  remember  that,  as  I  sat  in  the  garden,  and,  look- 
ing up  from  my  book,  saw  through  a  gap  in  the  shrubbery 
the  red  house-tiles  against  the  deep  blue  sky  and  the  gray 
underside  of  the  ilex  leaves  turned  up  by  the  Mediterranean 
breeze,  I  had  a  vague  consciousness  that  I  was  not  in  the 
Western  world. 

"  If  you  should  also  wish  to  have  it,  you  must  not  go  to 
Pisa ;  and,  indeed,  we  are  most  of  us  forewarned  as  to  Pisa 
from  an  early  age." 

The  author  seems  to  have  written  the  passages  in 
which  these  negligences  occur,  when  he  was  weary, 
or,  at  any  rate,  had  for  the  time  a  feeling  of  satiety 
in  regard  to  the  subjects  of  his  work,  a  kind  of  men- 
tal, or  sentimental,  indigestion  from  overfeeding  and 
want  of  variety  in  his  aliment.  To  write  page  after 
page  upon  the  picturesque  aspects  of  Italy  and  the 
picturesque  things  there  and  in  other  countries  till 
the  leaves  grow  to  a  goodly  volume;  to  sustain  a 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


187 


varied  and  fresh  dissertation  upon  a  subject  always 
the  same,  however  its  phases  may  change,  is  a  work 
that  cannot  be  done  in  haste,  or  when,  from  weari- 
ness or  any  other  cause,  the  appetite  for  this  kind  of 
beauty  flags,  and  the  discriminating  and  appreciating 
powers  are  somnolent.  One  of  the  most  noticeable 
things  about  these  books,  therefore,  is  that,  with 
some  very  rare  exceptions,  such  as  have  been  men- 
tioned, there  is  no  want  of  freshness,  no  diminution 
of  graceful  vigor,  and  no  drooping  of  an  aerial  fancy 
that  never  flies  too  high. 

The  air  of  frank  sincerity  which  everywhere  per- 
vades these  works  brings  into  bolder  and  more  offen- 
sive relief  an  apparent  affectation,  namely,  the  un- 
necessary use  of  foreign  words  and  phrases.  It  is 
easy  to  conceive  that  some  of  these  strange  terms 
were  introduced  with  the  greatest  candor,  such,  for 
instance,  as,  in  galleries,  cathedrals,  ruined  castles, 
wooded  heights  with  classic  outlines,  and  flowery 
campagnas  which  seem  the  very  dallying-places  of 
history,  have  fallen  upon  the  author's  ear  with  pecu- 
liar emphasis  and  significance.  He  might  naturally 
enough  feel  that  the  same  word  or  phrase  would 
impress  his  reader  more  forcibly  than  its  English 
equivalent,  without  considering  the  fact  that  to  almost 
all  of  those  who  see  his  pages,  even  the  remembrance 
of  the  associations  that  added  power  to  such  terms 
when  he  has  heard  them,  will  be  wanting ;  and  that 
to  some  of  those  for  wThom  he  wrought,  these  words 
and  phrases,  so  far  from  conveying  any  clear  mean- 


188 


110  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


ing,  will  but  obscure  the  sentences  in  which  they 
appear.  Yet  for  their  use  under  the  circumstances 
his  honesty  of  purpose  should  largely  serve  as  an 
excuse. 

But  no  charity  can  forgive  in  a  lover  of  classic 
beauty,  gentle  harmonies,  clear  expression  of  ideas, 
and  the  rich  vigor  of  his  mother-tongue,  such  wan- 
ton violations  of  good  taste  and  such  imperfect 
English  utterance  as  are  exhibited  in  the  following 
citations : 

"  Even  in  a  season  when  he  is  fatally  apt  to  meet  a  dozen 
fellow-pilgrims  returning  from  the  shrine,  each  gros  Jean 
comme  devaut,  or  to  overtake  a  dozen  more." 

"  And  if  you  think  he  had  better  not  be  in  Switzerland, 
— rassurez-vous, — he  will  not  be  there  long." 

"  Their  aspect  seems  a  sort  of  influence  from  the  blue 
glitter  of  the  lake  as  it  plays  through  the  trees  with  genial 
invraisemblan  ce. ' ' 

"  Your  sentimental  tourist  can  never  bouder  long." 

"  And  to  form  an  idea  of  the  etalage  you  must  imagine," 
etc. 

"  A  day  somehow  to  make  one  feel  as  if  one  had  seen  and 
felt  a  great  deal, — quite,  as  I  say,  like  a  heros  de  roman." 

"  His  physiognomy  was  wonderfully  de  Vcmploi." 

"  Yesterday  Prince  Humbert's  little  primogenito  was  on 
the  Pincio  in  an  open  landau,  with  his  governess." 

"  The  castle  is  being  completely  remis  d  neuf." 

"  A  month's  tour  in  Switzerland  is  no  more  a  jeu  de  prince 
than  a  Sunday  excursion." 

"  And  finally  the  friend  was  produced,  en  costume  de 
vOle." 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


189 


"  That  she  has  already  flung  a  sort  of  reflet  of  her  charm 
over  all  their  undried  mortar  and  plaster." 

"  The  sturdy  little  musketeer  who  was  trying  to  impart  a 
reflet  of  authority  to  the  neat  little  white  house." 

"A  man  so  much  de  son  temps  as  Byron  was." 

It  may  indeed  be  said,  as  some  sort  of  extenua- 
tion, that,  in  using  these  and  other  foreign  terms, 
the  author  could  hardly  have  designed  to  mystify 
his  readers  ;  for  he  must  have  been  conscious  that 
their  significance  is  tolerably  well  known  even  to 
persons  who  are  least  acquainted  with  the  meanings 
of  outlandish  words,  since,  having  been  brought 
back,  like  bits  of  coin,  by  so  many  hasty  voyagers 
and  frequently  exhibited  in  testimony  of  their  su- 
perior attainments,  they  have  gradually  crept  into 
circulation  at  depreciated  values.  This  is  especially 
true  of  certain  other  terms  which  the  author  uses 
freely,  and  which  are  even  more  worn,  common, 
plentiful,  and  cheap,  such,  for  instance,  as  "  mise  en 
seem"  "  stat  magni  nominis  umbra"  "genius  loci" 
"  coup  de  theatre"  "  a  fortiori"  "entrepreneur"  "  eoup 
d'etat"  "status  quo"  "apropos"  "  arriere  pensee" 
"con  amore"  "finesse"  fldnerie"  "  bourgeoise" 
etc.,  etc. 

As  has  been  intimated,  apart  from  such  blemishes 
as  those  already  pointed  out,  the  writer's  diction  is 
uncommonly  fine.  Only  rarely  does  his  strong  de- 
sire to  give  graphic  expression  to  thought  lead  him 
into  extravagance,  as,  for  example,  when  he  speaks 
of  Rubens's  paintings  as  "  carnal  cataracts." 

17 


190 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


Pictures  are  the  subjects  of  Ins  inmost  contempla- 
tion. That  portion  of  his  life  represented  by  these 
books,  more  especially  that  part  of  which  the 
"Transatlantic  Sketches"  are  the  fruits,  was  a  quest 
for  the  picturesque.  No  knight  of  the  Round  Table 
sought  more  earnestly  or  with  more  singleness  of 
purpose  for  the  Holy  Graal  than  did  the  author  for 
what  would  look  well  in  a  painting.  He  has  the 
pai liter's  intelligence  and  taste,  and  the  critic's  dis- 
crimination. The  generous  admiration  which  he 
feels  for  a  fine  building,  is  that  of  the  picture-maker 
rather  than  that  of  the  architect.  He  esteems  colors 
more  than  forms,  yet  is  far  from  insensible  to  beauti- 
ful shapes  and  graceful  outlines.  He  loves  these  not 
less,  but  those  more.  Yet  the  form  which  he  clearly 
perceives  and  instinctively  estimates,  is  that  which  is 
defined  by  the  painter,  not  that  which  the  sculptor 
makes.  Statuary  has  for  him  a  subordinate  charm  ; 
he  notes  it  only  incidentally.  Sitting  in  a  cathedral, 
lie  gives  himself  up  to  the  music-like  influences  of 
various  degrees  and  tones  of  light,  the  shadows,  the 
colors,  the  picture  for  which  the  architecture  serves 
as  an  appropriate  frame.  If  at  the  right  time  and 
in  the  right  place,  a  monk  appears  costumed  har- 
moniously with  all  that  the  physical  or  mental  eye 
sees  grouped  about  him,  he  at  once  becomes  the 
central  figure  in  the  painting  which  the  author  has 
already  constructed  in  his  own  mind  : 

"  A  Dominican  monk,  still  young,  who  showed  us  the 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


1  91 


church,  seemed  a  creature  generated  from  its  musty  shadows 
and  odors.  His  physiognomy  was  wonderfully  de  I'emploi, 
and  his  voice,  which  was  most  agreeable,  had  the  strangest 
jaded  humility.  His  lugubrious  salute,  and  sanctimonious 
impersonal  appropriation  of  my  departing  franc,  would  have 
been  a  master  touch  on  the  stage.    While  we  were  still  in 

— 

the  church  a  bell  rang,  which  he  had  to  go  and  answer,  and 
as  he  came  back  and  approached  us  along  the  nave,  he 
made  with  his  white  gown  and  hood,  and  his  cadaverous 
face,  against  the  dark  church  background,  one  of  those  pic- 
tures which,  thank  the  muses,  have  not  yet  been  reformed 
out  of  Italy.  It  was  strangely  like  the  mental  pictures 
suggested  in  reading  certain  plays  and  poems." 

The  subdued  tone  and  the  harmony  of  colors  to 
which  time  and  age  bring  all  tints,  whether  in  cos- 
tume,  in  works  of  the  brush,  or  in  products  of  the 
quarry  and  the  forest,  particularly  touch  the  writer. 
Their  effect  seems  to  be  the  strongest  of  any  received 
by  him  even  at  Rome,  and  the  most  pervading 
everywhere.  Its  contrast  with  that  produced  by 
the  hard,  fresh,  brilliant  coloring  to  which  Ameri- 
cans at  home  are  accustomed  can,  to  a  citizen  of  the 
great  republic,  who,  like  the  author,  is  happy  in  the 
possession  of  a  highly  refill ed  and  cultivated  taste, 
scarcely  fail  to  be  as  pleasing  as  it  is  impressive. 
Evidences  of  decay  that  has  been  going  on  for  hun- 
dreds of  years,  are  novelties,  and  a  stately  ruin  is  a 
whole  romance : 

"  Turning  back  into  Florence  proper,  you  have  local  color 
enough  and  to  spare, — which  you  enjoy  the  more,  doubt- 


192 


HO  W  TUFA7  STRIKE  ME, 


less,  from  standing  off  to  get  ygur  light  and  your  point  of 
view.  The  elder  streets,  abutting  on  all  this  newness,  go 
boring  away  into  the  heart  of  the  city  in  narrow,  dusky 
vistas  of  a  fascinating  picturesqueness.  Pausing  to  look 
down  thein  sometimes,  and  to  penetrate  the  deepening 
shadows  through  which  they  recede,  they  seem  to  me  little 
corridors  leading  out  from  the  past,  as  mystical  as  the  ladder 
in  Jacob's  dream ;  and  when  I  see  a  single  figure  coming 
up  toward  me  I  am  half  afraid  to  wait  till  it  arrives ;  it 
seems  too  much  like  a  ghost, — a  messenger  from  an  under 
world.  Florence,  paved  with  its  great  mosaics  of  slabs  and 
lined  with  its  massive  Tuscan  palaces,  which,  in  their  large 
dependence  on  pure  symmetry  for  beauty  of  effect,  repro- 
duce more  than  any  other  modern  styles  the  simple  noble- 
ness of  Greek  architecture,  must  have  always  been  a  stately 
city,  and  not  especially  rich  in  that  ragged  picturesqueness 
— the  picturesqueness  of  poverty — on  which  we  feast  our 
idle  eyes  at  Rome  and  Naples.  Except  in  the  unfinished 
fronts  of  the  churches,  which,  however  unfortunately,  are 
mere  prosaic  ugliness,  one  finds  here  less  romantic  shabbi- 
ness  than  in  most  Italian  cities.  But  at  two  or  three  points 
it  exists  in  perfection, — in  just  such  perfection  as  proves 
that  often  what  is  literally  hideous  may  be  constructively 
delightful.  On  the  north  side  of  the  Arno,  between  the 
Ponte  Vecchio  and  the  Ponte  Santa  Trinita,  is  an  ancient 
row  of  houses,  backing  on  the  river,  in  whose  yellow  flood 
they  bathe  their  aching  old  feet.  Anything  more  battered 
and  befouled,  more  cracked  and  disjointed,  dirtier,  drearier, 
shabbier,  it  would  be  impossible  to  conceive.  They  look  as 
if,  fifty  years  ago,  the  muddy  river  had  risen  over  their 
chimneys  and  then  subsided  again,  and  left  them  coated 
forever  with  its  unsightly  slime.    And  yet,  forsooth,  because 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


the  river  is  yellow,  and  the  light  is  yellow,  and  here  and 
there,  elsewhere,  some  mellow,  mouldering  surface,  some 
hint  of  color,  some  accident  of  atmosphere,  takes  up  the 
foolish  tale  and  repeats  the  note, — because,  in  short,  it  is 
Florence,  it  is  Italy,  and  you  are  a  magnanimous  Yankee, 
bred  amid  the  micaceous  sparkle  of  brown-stone  fronts  and 
lavish  of  enthusiasm,  these  miserable  dwellings,  instead  of 
simply  suggesting  mental  invocations  to  an  enterprising 
board  of  health,  bloom  and  glow  all  along  the  line  in  the 
perfect  felicity  of  picturesqueness.  Lately,  during  the  misty 
autumn  nights,  the  moon  has  been  shining  on  them  faintly, 
and  refining  away  their  shabbiness  into  something  ineffably 
strange  and  spectral.  The  yellow  river  sweeps  along  without 
a  sound,  and  the  pale  tenements  hang  above  it  like  a  vague 
miasmatic  exhalation.  The  dimmest  back  scene  at  the 
opera,  when  the  tenor  is  singing  his  sweetest,  seems  hardly 
to  belong  to  a  more  dreamily  fictitious  world." 

You  see  that  the  writer  has  a  genial  imagination. 
He  has  also  a  pleasant,  but  not  overflowing  fancy, 
which  for  the  most  part  undulates  unobtrusively, 
and  occasionally  bubbles  up  with  sparkling  effect : 

"  The  little  broken-visaged  effigies  of  saints  and  kings 
and  bishops,  niched  in  tiers  along  this  hoary  wall,  are 
prodigiously  black  and  quaint  and  primitive  in  expression  ; 
and  as  you  look  at  them  with  whatever  contemplative  ten- 
derness your  trade  of  hard-working  tourist  may  have  left  at 
your  disposal,  you  fancy  that  somehow  they  are  consciously 
historical, — sensitive  victims  of  time ;  that  they  feel  the 
loss  of  their  noses,  their  toes,  and  their  crowns ;  and  that 
when  the  long  June  twilight  turns  at  last  to  a  deeper  gray, 
and  the  quiet  of  the  close  to  a  deeper  stillness,  they  begin 

17* 


194 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


to  peer  sidewise  out  of  their  narrow  recesses,  and  to  con- 
verse in  some  strange  form  of  early  English,  as  rigid,  yet  as 
candid  as  their  features  and  postures,  moaning  like  a  com- 
pany of  ancient  paupers  round  a  hospital  fire  over  their 
ashes  and  infirmities  and  losses,  and  the  sadness  of  being  so 
terribly  old." 

He  shows  capacity  for  the  enjoyment  rather  than 
for  the  production  of  humor.  You  fancy  that  an 
airy  conception  of  it  often  tickles  his  brain,  but  only 
rarely  does  he  give  it  birth  in  appreciable  form,  as, 
for  instance,  when  speaking  of  the  stout  woman  of 
Berne  : 

"Another,  a  perfect  mountain  of  a  woman,  is  brought 
forth  every  morning,  lowered  with  the  proper  precautions, 
with  her  bench,  and  left  there  till  night.  She  is  always 
knitting  a  stocking ;  I  have  an  idea  that  she  is  the  foumis- 
seuse  of  the  whole  little  Swiss  army  ;  or  she  ought  to  wear 
one  of  these  castellated  crowns  which  forms  the  coiffure  of 
ladies  on  monuments,  and  sit  there  before  all  men's  eyes  as 
the  embodied  genius  of  the  city — the  patroness  of  Berne. 
Like  the  piers  of  the  arcades,  she  has  a  most  fantastic  thick- 
ness, and  her  superfluous  fleshly  substance  could  certainly 
furnish  forth  a  dozen  women  on  the  American  plan.  I 
suppose  she  is  forty  years  old,  but  her  tremendous  bulk  is 
surmounted  by  a  face  of  the  most  infantine  freshness  and 
naivete.  She  is  evidently  not  a  fool ;  on  the  contrary,  she 
looks  very  sensible  and  amiable  ;  her  immense  circumfer- 
ence has  kept  experience  at  bay,  and  she  is  perfectly  inno- 
cent because  nothing  has  ever  happened  to  her." 

Nature,  for  him,  has,  undoubtedly,  many  charms. 


THESE  A  VTIIORS. 


L95 


But,  in  his  character  of  a  sentimental  tourist,  at  least, 
these  charms  are  very  much  heightened  by  sugges- 
tions of  humanity,  and  of  what  belongs  or  has  be- 
longed to  it.  He  is  brought  into  near  and  perfect 
sympathy  with  a  landscape  only  by  a  more  or  less 
vivid  faith  that  it  has  been  peopled,  and  that  it  is 
still  a  kind  of  abiding  place  for  dim  and  dream-like 
memories : 

"  At  least  half  the  merit  of  everything  you  enjoy  must 
be  that  it  suits  you  absolutely  ;  but  the  larger  half  here,  is 
generally  that  it  has  suited  some  one  else,  and  that  you  can 
never  flatter  yourself  you  have  discovered  it.  It  is  his- 
toric, literary,  suggestive,  it  has  played  some  other  part  than 
it  is  just  then  playing  to  your  eyes." 

"  And  the  Medici  were  a  great  people !  But  what  re- 
mains of  it  all  now  is  a  mere  tone  in  the  air,  a  vague  ex- 
pression in  things,  a  hint  to  the  questioning  fancyi  Call 
it  much  or  little,  this  is  the  interest  of  old  places.  Time 
has  devoured  the  doers  and  their  doings  ;  there  hovers  over 
the  place  a  perfume  of  something  done.  We  can  build 
gardens  in  America,  adorned  with  every  device  of  horticul- 
ture, but  we  unfortunately  cannot  scatter  abroad  this  strange 
historic  aroma,  more  exquisite  than  the  rarest  roses." 

Perhaps  the  most  valuable  as  well  as  most  in- 
teresting portions  of  these  works  are  the  incidental 
reviews  of  master- works  of  painting.  The  frank, 
unaffected,  undogmatic  style  of  their  criticisms,  the 
nice  and  exact  power  of  analysis  which  they  mani- 
fest, their  broad  and  catholic  spirit,  the  clearly 
stated  reasons  by  which  conclusions  are  sustained, 


196 


110  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


must  commend  them  to  all,  even  to  the  readers 
w  hoso  opinions  may  differ  from  those  of  the  author. 
His  "Passionate  Pilgrim  and  Other  Tales"  are  de- 
serving of  analysis  as  candid,  fine,  and  catholic  as 
that  which  he  himself  effects.  If  their  author  goes 
on  to  build  worthily  on  the  foundation  thus  laid,  his 
position  in  American  literature  should  be  a  proud 
one. 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


1 97 


AN  AMERICAN  HUMORIST. 

Mr.  Bret  Harte  first  became  widely  known  as 
a  poet,  by  his  "  Plain  Language  from  Truthful 
James,"  if  that  can  truthfully  be  called  poetry. 
This  production  has  probably  done  more  to  make  its 
author  famous  than  all  that  he  has  written  besides. 
Its  quaint  slang  and  forms  of  ungrammatical  usage, 
till  then  strangers  east  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  its 
suggestive  way  of  presenting  a  clear  picture  and  a 
complete  action  and  gratifying  catastrophe,  with  its 
tersely-forcible  description  of  character  and  peculiar- 
ities, were  quite  enough  to  account  for  the  interest 
aroused  by  this  composition,  independent  of  any 
poetic  qualities. 

The  kind  of  celebrity,  as  well  as  the  rapidity  with 
which  it  was  gained,  were  strong  evidences  that  this 
publication  contained  some  insinuating  power  very 
different  from  that  of  poetry.  This  is  to  be  found  in 
its  humor,  which  is  of  the  sort  particularly  relished 
by  Americans,  and  which  seems  to  be  more  especially 
the  product  of  frontier  life.  At  the  time  when  it 
was  written,  the  peculiar  use  of  the  relative  pronoun 
"  which" — a  rhetorical  figure  borrowed  from  the 
slang  of  the  London  cockneys — and  other  character- 


198 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


istics  in  the  style  of  this  piece,  could  be  seen  in  a 
comic  paper  published  in  Australia.  But  it  was 
novel  enough  to  be  uncommonly  attractive  to  staid 
people  on  both  continents,  who  habitually  heard  only 
conventional  forms  of  speech,  and  whose  spirits  were 
less  active  than  those  of  explorers,  to  whom  innova- 
tion is  the  rule  of  life.  As  a  humorist,  therefore, 
not  as  a  poet,  Mr.  Harte  was  first  introduced  to 
people  east  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  His  candidacy 
for  poetic  honors  has  since  been  made  known;  so  has 
his  claim  to  be  considered  as  a  writer  of  fiction.  Of 
the  seven  volumes  which  contain  his  writings  com- 
pleted up  to  the  present  time  (1876),  three  are  made 
up  of  verses  and  four  of  short  stories  in  prose.  He 
therefore  comes  before  the  critic  in  the  threefold 
character  of  humorist,  novelist,  and  poet. 

In  each  of  these  characters  his  greatest  strength 
appears  to  be  a  wide  suggestiveness.  But  this  sug- 
gestiveness  springs  from  the  play  of  "  temporary 
inclination,  mood,  caprice,  whim,  or  fancy/'  and 
these  are  some  of  the  definitions  of  humor.  Even 
the  pathos,  which  he  at  times  uses  with  rare  skill, 
manifests  one  of  the  phases  of  humor,  which  may  be 
black  or  white,  gay  or  sad,  tender  or  stern.  It  is  a 
common  but  erroneous  notion  that  a  man  is  a  humor- 
ist only  when  he  makes  sport  for  others,  or  in  some 
way  excites  their  merriment.  The  comedian  is  as 
truly  a  humorist  when  he  makes  his  auditors  weep 
as  he  is  when  he  makes  them  laugh.  The  humors 
of  noted  wits  have  produced  some  of  the  most  pa- 


THESE  A  UTIIORS. 


L99 


thetic  compositions  in  the  English  language.  In 
these  men  the  gay  is  counterbalanced  by  the  sad,  the 
cheerful  by  the  melancholy  mood.  In  a  certain 
sense  they  are  like  a  great  dramatist;  they  have  the 
capacity  of  humors,  as  he  has  that  of  characters.  As 
in  him  the  even  balance  and  logical  sense  impel  the 
production  of  personages  so  opposed  that  a  fair  equi- 
poise shall  be  preserved,  so  in  them  sportiveness  is 
counterbalanced  with  pathos.  The  oscillations  of 
whims  and  fancies  carry  them  to  an  equal  distance 
on  either  side  of  the  median  line.  In  these  excur- 
sions upon  the  one  side,  something  ludicrous  or  gro- 
tesque attracts  the  humorist's  gaze;  upon  it  all  his 
attention  is  at  once  concentrated ;  he  hovers  about  it 
like  a  bee  in  search  of  honey ;  with  microscopic  eye, 
like  that  of  the  insect,  he  peers  into  every  crevice, 
examines  every  elevation,  explores  every  wrinkle, 
investigates  every  excrescence,  measures  the  obliquity 
of  every  line,  observes  the  exact  angle  of  the  squint, 
notes  the  degree  of  dissonance  in  the  colors  of  hair, 
eyes,  complexion,  and  clothing,  gauges  the  perturba- 
tions of  gait,  passes  them  all  through  the  alembic  of 
fancy  heated  by  meditation.  The  result  is  a  humor- 
ous picture,  or  any  one  of  a  dozen  whimsical  resem- 
blances. Generally,  persons  and  things  are  alike 
unconscious  that  they  are  what  Mr.  Harte  might  call 
rich  leads,  that  they  present  any  ludicrous  or  touch- 
ing aspects;  and,  for  the  most  part,  other  people  fail 
to  see  what  the  humorist  alone  discovers. 

The  party  at  Robinson's  Hall,  where  The  Rose  of 


200 


110  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


Tuolumne  had  been — a  "  tear"  her  father  called  it — 
had  broken  up : 

"  One  enamored  swain  had  ridden  east,  another  west, 
another  north,  another  south  ;  and  the  object  of  their  adora- 
tion, left  within  her  bower  at  Chenrisal  Ridge,  was  calmly 
going  to  bed.  I  regret  that  I  am  not  able  to  indicate  the 
exact  stage  of  that  process.  Two  chairs  were  already  filled 
with  delicate  inwrappings  and  white  confusion ;  and  the 
young  lady  herself,  half  hidden  in  the  silky  threads  of  her 
yellow  hair,  had  at  one  time  borne  a  faint  resemblance  to  a 
partly-husked  ear  of  Indian  corn." 

Mr.  McClosky  is  giving  Mr.  Ashe  some  pertinent 
history  of  his  domestic  affairs,  and  more  especially  of 
his  marriage,  and  what  followed  it : 

"  '  Many  little  things  sorter  tended  to  make  our  home  in 
Missouri  onpleasant.  A  disposition  to  smash  furniture  and 
heave  knives  around ;  an  inclination  to  howl  when  drunk, 
and  that  frequent ;  a  habitooal  use  of  vulgar  language,  and 
a  tendency  to  cuss  the  casoal  visitor, — seemed  to  pint,' 
added  Mr.  McClosky,  with  submissive  hesitation,  '  that — 
she — was — so  to  speak — quite  onsuited  to  the  marriage 
relation  in  its  holiest  aspeck. 

"  '  At  the  end  of  two  year,'  continued  Mr.  McClosky, 
still  intent  on  the  valise,  '  I  allowed  I'd  get  a  divorce.  Et 
about  thet  time,  however,  Providence  sends  a  circus  into 
thet  town,  and  a  feller  ez  rode  three  horses  to  onct. 
Hevin'  allez  a  taste  for  athletic  sports,  she  left  town  with 
this  feller,  leavin'  me  and  Jinny  behind.  I  sent  word  to 
her  thet,  if  she  would  give  Jinny  to  me,  we'd  call  it  quits. 
And  she  did. 

"  '  She  weut  to  Kansas ;  from  Kansas  she  went  into  Texas ; 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


201 


from  Texas  she  eventooally  come  to  Californy.  Being  here, 
I've  purvided  her  with  money  when  her  business  was  slack, 
through  a  friend.  She's  gcttin'  rather  old  and  shaky  for 
hosses,  and  now  does  the  tight  rope  and  flying  trapeze. 
Never  heven'  seen  her  perform,'  continued  Mr.  McClosky, 
with  conscientious  caution,  1  I  can't  say  how  she  gets  on. 
On  the  bills  she  looks  well.    Thar  is  a  poster.'  " 

Jenny  (The  Rose)  heard  a  knock  at  her  door,  and 
asked  who  was  there : 

"  An  apologetic  murmur  on  the  other  side  of  the  door 
was  the  response. 

" 1  Why,  father  !  is  that  you?' 

"  There  were  further  murmurs,  affirmative,  deprecatory, 
and  persistent. 

"  (  Wait,'  said  the  £  Rose.'  She  got  up,  unlocked  the  door, 
leaped  nimbly  into  bed  again,  and  said,  1  Coma.' 

"  The  door  opened  timidly.  The  broad,  stooping  shoulders 
and  grizzled  head  of  a  man  past  the  middle  age  appeared ; 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  a  pair  of  large,  diffident  feet, 
shod  with  canvas  slippers,  concluded  to  follow.  When  the 
apparition  was  complete,  it  closed  the  door  softly  and  stood 
there,  a  very  shy  ghost  indeed,  with  apparently  more  than 
the  usual  spiritual  indisposition  to  begin  a  conversation. 
The  '  Rose'  resented  this  impatiently,  though,  I  fear,  not 
altogether  intelligibly. 

'"Do,  father,  I  declare  !' 

" 1  You  was  abed,  Jinny,'  said  Mr.  McClosky,  slowly, 
glancing  with  a  singular  mixture  of  masculine  awe  and 
paternal  pride  upon  the  two  chairs  and  their  contents,  1  you 
was  abed  and  ondressed.5 

" 1 1  was.' 

18 


202 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


" '  Surely,'  said  Mr.  McClosky,  seating  himself  on  the 
extreme  edge  of  the  bed  and  painfully  tucking  his  feet  away 
under  it,  '  surely.'  After  a  pause  he  rubbed  a  short,  thick, 
stumpy  beard,  that  bore  a  general  resemblance  to  a  badly- 
worn  blacking-brush,  with  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  went 
on,  '  You  had  a  good  time,  Jinny.' 

"  '  Yes,  father.' 

"  '  They  was  all  there  ?' 

"  '  Yes  ;  Ranee,  and  York,  and  Ryder,  and  Jack.' 

"  '  And  Jack  !'  Mr.  McClosky  endeavored  to  throw  an 
expression  of  arch  inquiry  into  his  small,  tremulous  eyes ; 
but  meeting  the  unabashed,  widely  opened  lid  of  his 
daughter,  he  winked  rapidly  and  blushed  to  the  roots  of 
his  hair. 

"  '  Yes,  Jack  was  there,'  said  Jinny,  without  change  of 
color  or  the  least  self-consciousness  in  her  great  gray  eyes ; 
'  and  he  came  home  with  me.'  She  paused  a  moment, 
locking  her  two  hands  under  her  head,  and  assuming  a 
more  comfortable  position  on  the  pillow.  1  He  asked  me 
that  same  question  again,  father,  and  I  said  "  Yes."  It's  to 
be — soon.  We're  going  to  live  at  Four  Forks,  in  his  own 
house ;  and  next  winter  we're  going  to  Sacramento.  I 
suppose  it's  all  right,  father,  eh?'  She  emphasized  the 
question  with  a  slight  kick  through  the  bedclothes,  as  the 
parental  McClosky  had  fallen  into  an  abstract  revery. 

"  '  Yes,  surely,'  said  Mr.  McClosky,  recovering  himself 
with  some  confusion.  After  a  pause  he  looked  down  at  the 
bedclothes,  and  patting  them  tenderly,  continued:  'You 
ouldn't  have  done  better,  Jinny.  They  isn't  a  girl  in 
Tuolumne  ez  could  strike  it  ez  rich  as  you  hev, — even  if 
they  got  the  chance.'  He  paused  again,  and  then  said  : 
'Jinny.' 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


203 


« 1  Yes,  father.' 

"  '  You're  in  bed,  and  ondressed  ?' 
« '  Yes.' 

"  '  You  couldn't,'  said  Mr.  McClosky,  glancing  hopelessly 
at  the  two  chairs,  and  slowly  rubbing  his  chin, — 'you 
couldn't  dress  yourself  again,  could  yer?' 

"  '  Why,  father  !' 

"  '  Kinder  get  yourself  into  them  things  again  ?'  he  added, 
hastily.  '  Not  all  of 'em,  you  know,  but  some  of  'em.  Not 
if  I  helped  you, — sorter  stood  by  and  lent  a  hand  now  and 
then  with  a  strap,  or  a  buckle,  or  a  necktie,  or  a  shoestring  ?' 
he  continued,  still  looking  at  the  chairs,  and  evidently  trying 
to  boldly  familiarize  himself  with  their  contents. 

"'Are  you  crazy,  father?'  demanded  Jenny,  suddenly 
sitting  up,  with  a  portentous  switch  of  her  yellow  mane. 
Mr.  McClosky  rubbed  one  side  of  his  beard,  which  already 
had  the  appearance  of  having  been  quite  worn  away  by  that 
process,  and  faintly  dodged  the  question. 

"  '  Jinny,'  he  said,  tenderly  stroking  the  bedclothes  as  he 
spoke,  '  this  yer's  what's  the  matter.  Thar's  a  stranger 
down  stairs — a  stranger  to  you,  lovey,  but  a  man  ez  I've 
knowed  a  long  time.  He's  been  here  about  an  hour  ;  and 
he'll  be  here  until  fower  o'clock,  when  the  up-stage  passes. 
Now  I  wants  ye,  Jinny  dear,  to  get  up  and  come  down 
stairs,  and  kinder  help  me  pass  the  time  with  him.  It's 
no  use,  Jinny,'  he  went  on,  gently  raising  his  hand  to 
deprecate  any  interruption,  '  it's  no  use !  He  won't  go  to 
bed ;  he  won't  play  keerds ;  whiskey  don't  take  no  effect 
on  him.  Ever  since  I  knowed  him  he  was  the  most  un- 
satisfactory critter  to  hev  round.  *  * 

"  '  You  see,  Jinny,'  continued  Mr.  McClosky,  apologetic- 
ally, '  he's  known  me  a  long  time.' 


204 


HO  IT  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


"  But  his  daughter  had  already  dismissed  the  question 
with  her  usual  directness.  '  I'll  be  down  in  a  few  moments, 
father.'  she  said  after  a  pause  ;  'but  don't  say  anything  to 
him  about  it — don't  say  I  was  abed.' " 

You  see  how  the  mirthful  mood  has  predominated 
thus  far.  though  you  have  been  touched  by  old  Mc- 
Closkey's  diffidence,  tenderness,  and  deference  to- 
ward his  daughter.  But  now  the  line  is  clearly  and 
suddenly  crossed.  A  pathetic  impulse  has  seized  the 
writer.  His  is  no  longer  a  laughing  or  a  mocking, 
it  is  now  wholly  a  tearful  humor  : 

"  Mr.  McClosky's  face  beamed.  'You  was  allers  a  good 
girl.  Jinny/  he  said,  dropping  on  one  knee,  the  better  to 
imprint  a  respectful  kiss  on  her  forehead.  But  Jenny 
caught  him  by  the  wrists,  and  for  a  moment  held  him 
captive.  '  Father,'  said  she,  trying  to  fix  his  shy  eyes  with 
the  clear,  steady  glance  of  her  own,  'all  the  girls  that 
were  there  to-night  had  some  one  with  them.  Maine 
Bobinson  had  her  aunt,  Lucy  Ranee  had  her  mother,  Kate 
Pierson  had  her  sister — all  except  me  had  some  other 
woman.  Father,  dear,'  her  lips  trembled  just  a  little,  '  I 
wish  mother  hadn't  died  when  I  was  so  small.  I  wish 
there  was  some  other  woman  in  the  family  besides  me.  I 
ain't  lonely  with  you,  father  dear ;  but  if  there  was  only 
some  one,  you  know,  when  the  time  comes  for  John  and 
me  1 

"Her  voice  here  suddenly  gave  out,  but  not  her  brave 
eyes,  that  were  still  fixed  earnestly  upon  his  face.  Mr. 
McClosky,  apparently  tracing  out  a  pattern  on  the  bed- 
quilt,  essayed  words  of  comfort. 

" '  Thar  ain't  one  of  them  gals  cz  you've  named.  Jinny, 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


205 


ez  could  do  what  you've  done,  with  a  whole  Noah's  ark  of 
relations  at  their  backs!  Thar  ain't  one  ez  wouldn't  sacri- 
fice her  nearest  relation  to  make  the  strike  that  you  hev. 
Ez  to  mothers,  maybe,  my  dear,  you're  doing  better  with- 
out one.'  He  rose  suddenly,  and  walked  toward  the  door. 
When  he  reached  it,  he  turned,  and,  in  his  old  deprecating 
manner,  said :  '  Don't  be  long,  Jinny,'  smiled,  and  van- 
ished from  the  head  downward,  his  canvas  slippers  assert- 
ing themselves  resolutely  to  the  last." 

Only  when  you  come  to  know  that  Jenny  is  not 
McClosky's  daughter,  that  she  was  born  out  of  wed- 
lock of  the  woman  whom  McClosky  afterward  mar- 
ried, supposing  her  to  be  a  widow,  and  with  whom, 
when  she  left  him  to  go  with  the  man  who  could 
ride  three  horses  at  once,  he  agreed  to  call  it  quits 
if  she  would  give  him  the  child,  do  you  perceive  all 
the  pathos  of  this  scene. 

Well,  Jenny  went  down-stairs  to  help  entertain 
the  stranger.  He  was  a  young  man,  educated  and 
well  bred,  something  of  a  poet  also.  She  had  never 
seen  his  like  before  ;  probably,  before  then  he  had 
never  seen  her  like.  She  talked  with  unconscious 
frankness  and  freedom  from  constraint ;  he,  with 
uncommon  ardor.  When  it  was  time  for  the  up- 
stage to  pass  she  offered  to  go  with  him  to  the  cross 
roads,  for  she  felt  somehow  as  if  he  needed  and  were 
under  her  protection  : 

"  It  was  a  lovely  night.    The  moon  swung  low,  and 
languished  softly  on  the  snowy  ridge  beyond.    There  were 
quaint  odors  in  the  still  air;  and  a  strange  incense  from 
18* 


206 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME. 


the  woods  perfumed  their  young  blood,  and  seemed  to 
swoon  in  their  pulses.  Small  wonder  that  they  lingered  on 
the  white  road,  that  their  feet  climbed  unwillingly  the 
little  hill  where  they  were  to  part,  and  that,  when  they  at 
last  reached  it,  even  the  saving  grace  of  speech  seemed  to 
have  forsaken  them. 

"  For  there  they  stood  alone.  There  was  no  sound  nor 
motion  in  earth,  or  woods,  or  heaven.  They  might  have 
been  the  one  man  and  woman  for  whom  this  goodly  earth 
that  lay  at  their  feet,  rimmed  with  the  deepest  azure,  was 
created.  And,  seeing  this,  they  turned  toward  each  other 
with  a  sudden  instinct,  and  their  hands  met,  and  then  their 
lips  in  one  long  kiss." 

And  then  Jenny  went  home,  and  felt  very  lonely. 
Tears  gathered  in  her  sweet  eyes  as  she  sat  by  the 
window  watching  the  stars  as  they  paled  away,  and 
the  brightening  east  as  the  dawn  came  on : 

"  The  straggling  line  of  black  picket  fence  below,  that 
had  faded  away  with  the  stars,  came  back  with  the  sun. 
What  was  that  object  moving  by  the  fence  ?  Jenny  raised 
her  head  and  looked  intently.  It  was  a  man  endeavoring 
to  climb  the  pickets,  and  falling  backward  with  each 
attempt.  Suddenly  she  started  to  her  feet,  as  if  the  rosy 
flushes  of  the  dawn  had  crimsoned  her  from  forehead  to 
shoulders;  then  she  stood,  white  as  the  wall,  with  her 
hands  clasped  upon  her  bosom  ;  then,  with  a  single  bound, 
she  reached  the  door,  and,  with  flying  braids  and  fluttering 
skirt,  sprang  down  stairs,  and  out  to  the  garden  walk. 
When  within  a  few  feet  of  the  fence,  she  uttered  a  cry, 
the  first  she  had  given — the  cry  of  a  mother  over  her 
stricken  babe,  of  a  tigress  over  her  mangled  cub ;  and  in 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


207 


another  moment  she  had  leaped  the  fence,  and  knelt  beside 
Ridgeway,  with  his  fainting  head  upon  her  breast. 

"'My  boy,  my  poor,  poor  boy!  who  has  done  this?1 
Who  indeed?  His  clothes  were  covered  with  dust;  his 
waistcoat  was  torn  open ;  and  his  handkerchief,  wet  with 
the  blood  it  could  not  staunch,  fell  from  a  cruel  stab  be- 
neath his  shoulder. 

"  '  Ridgeway,  my  poor  boy  !  tell  me  what  has  happened.' 

"  Ridgeway  slowly  opened  his  heavy  blue-veined  lid, 
and  gazed  upon  her.  Presently  a  gleam  of  mischief  came 
into  his  dark  eyes,  a  smile  stole  over  his  lips  as  he  whis- 
pered slowly, — 

"  It — was — your  kiss — did  it,  Jenny  dear  !  I  had  for- 
gotten— how  high-priced  the  article  was  here.  Never 
mind,  Jenny!' — he  feebly  raised  her  hand  to  his  white 
lips, — '  it  was — worth  it.'  and  fainted  away. 

Jenny  started  to  her  feet,  and  looked  wildly  around  her. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  resolution,  she  stooped  over  the  insen- 
sible man,  and  with  one  strong  effort  lifted  him  in  her  arms 
as  if  he  had  been  a  child.  When  her  father,  a  moment 
later,  rubbed  his  eyes  and  awoke  from  his  sleep  upon  the 
veranda,  it  was  to.  see  a  goddess,  erect  and  triumphant, 
striding  toward  the  house  with  the  helpless  body  of  a  man 
lying  across  that  breast  where  man  had  never  lain  before, — 
a  goddess,  at  whose  imperious  mandate  he  arose,  and  cast 
open  the  doors  before  her.  And  then,  when  she  had  laid 
her  unconscious  burden  on  the  sofa,  the  goddess  fled ;  and 
a  woman,  helpless  and  trembling,  stood  before  him, — a 
woman  that  cried  out  that  she  had  '  killed  him,'  that  she 
was  '  wicked,  wicked  !'  and  that,  even  saying  so,  staggered, 
and  fell  beside  her  late  burden.  And  all  that  Mr.  Mc- 
Closky  could  do  was  to  feebly  rub  his  beard,  and  say  to 


208 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME. 


himself  vaguely  and  incoherently,  that  '  Jinny  had  fetched 
him.'" 

This  humor  is  a  subtle,  penetrating,  permeating 
fluid.  It  moves  with  electric  speed,  is  seen  here  and 
there,  at  times  when  most  unexpected  and  in  the  most 
improbable  places.  It  pierces  the  thickest  disguises, 
sounds  invisible  depths,  lights  with  its  flashes  the 
darkest  spots,  reveals  fascinations  under  the  most 
forbidding  forms,  affords  glimpses  of  beauty  beneath 
the  most  repulsive  exteriors.  It  gives  tongue  to  sor- 
rows which  a  dumb  animal  vainly  tries  to  express, 
furnishes  words  for  griefs  which  the  speaking  crea- 
ture vainly  strives  to  conceal,  and  the  unsuccessful 
efforts  of  each  equally  stimulate  its  pathetic  moods. 
It  deals  with  incident  rather  than  with  character, 
with  situation  rather  than  with  sequence.  It  is  in 
some  respects  antagonistic  to  the  logical  faculty,  and 
the  two,  largely  developed,  are  rarely  found  together. 
When  associated,  each  in  strong  force,  they  indicate 
a  great  man,  who,  if  he  have  also  an  inventive  imagi- 
nation, may  create  great  things,  great  characters, 
great  poems,  great  dramas.  If  he  be  also  a  humor- 
ist, his  different  moods  are  manifested,  for  the  most 
part,  each  in  a  different  personage  of  his  creation. 
That  which  the  truly  creative  genius  moulds,  as  their 
principal  ingredients,  into  complete,  consistent,  and 
original  works,  the  mere  humorist  uses  as  the  fresco- 
painter  does  his  colors,  to  set  off  and  adorn,  often 
after  a  grotesque  fashion,  the  dull  interior  or  blank 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


209 


walls  of  some  existing  structure,  laying  on  light, 
dark,  or  mixed  tints  as  his  fancy  may  prompt.  He 
does  not  infuse  his  moods  into  a  creation  at  its  con- 
ception or  at  its  birth  ;  he  fits  them  to  a  thing  in 
being,  something  ready  made  to  his  hand,  something 
that  is  unconsciously  peculiar,  or  that  suggests  hu- 
morous peculiarities.  Set  in  full  play  by  a  sugges- 
tion, his  whims  may  take  a  large  range,  may  go 
widely  from  the  point  of  departure,  may  even  bring 
together  a  semblance  of  something  newly  made ;  but 
if  analyzed,  new  substance  in  the  apparition  is  found 
to  be  wanting.  It  has  no  well-knit  articulations,  no 
bony  system,  no  solid  flesh,  no  muscular  action. 

That  Mr.  Harte  is  a  humorist  has  been  sufficiently 
shown.  But  he  is* something  more  than  this.  That, 
in  his  different  moods,  he  sometimes  manifests  an 
exquisite  fancy,  is  plain  to  any  reader  of  his  works. 
He  has  not  yet  demonstrated  the  possession  of  crea- 
tive power  in  any  high  degree,  but  he  has  given 
indications  that  he  holds  its  germ,  and  that  it  may 
be  developed.  He  can  make  a  statue,  so  enlarging 
and  idealizing  the  original  that  his  work  appears  to 
be  his  own  invention.  But  he  cannot,  at  any  rate  he 
has  not,  composed  a  group,  or  given  his  statue  any 
obvious  relation  to  any  other,  or  to  anything  out- 
side of  itself.  His  stories  are  like  the  sketches  and 
studies  which  a  painter  might  make ;  but  the  great 
painter's  ability  to  construct  of  these  studies  a  well- 
arranged  composition,  with  a  true  interdependence  of 
parts  and  a  unity  of  purpose,  to  the  accomplishment 


210 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


and  significance  of  which  every  stroke  of  the  brush 
contributes  something,  he  has  not  displayed.  In  his 
metrical  as  well  as  in  his  prose  stories,  he  shows  a 
certain  kind  of  dramatic  faculty.  He  has  a  quick 
perception  of  what  is  called  a  dramatic  situation, 
especially  that  kind  of  situation  suitable  to  melo- 
drama. But  with  the  working  up  of  one  such  scene 
at  a  time  his  purpose  ends ;  the  scene  leads  to  nothing 
beyond,  has  no  necessary  connection  with  anything 
that  precedes.  Generally  it  is  complete  in  itself,  and 
has  clearly-defined  outlines.  Generally,  also,  it  has 
distinct,  well-regulated,  and  vigorous  action.  This, 
however,  is  of  the  simplest  kind,  beginning  and 
ending  with  the  catastrophe. 

He  has  a  keen  and  infallible  eye  for  a  rough  dia- 
mond, and  great  skill  in  polishing  it.  All  its  facets 
are  made  to  reflect  some  shade  of  his  humor.  If  the 
diamond  be  very  much  soiled,  or  even  somewhat 
scarred  and  broken,  so  much  the  better  for  him ;  its 
inherent  qualities  are  all  the  brighter  by  contrast. 
He  had  the  good  fortune  early  in  life  to  go  where 
such  gems  were  found  very  rough,  if  discovered  at 
all,  and  where  no  one  but  himself  was  able  to  per- 
ceive their  worth,  to  cut  them  out  of  their  unclean- 
ness,  and  give  them  an  advantageous  setting.  He 
perceived  that  a  rich  mine  of  strange,  strong,  stirring 
novelties  was  unearthed,  and  he  had  the  taste  and 
judgment  to  prize  them  at  their  just  valuation.  As, 
with  the  indifference  of  familiarity,  they  were  thrown 
out  and  disregarded  by  all  sorts  of  explorers,  he 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


211 


gathered  them  up,  prepared  them  for  the  foreign 
market,  like  a  merchant  who  knew  their  worth,  and 
expected  from  them  large  and  honorable  profits.  He 
especially  delights  in  showing  some  touching  humor- 
ous trait  in  an  imbecile,  a  drunkard,  a  gambler,  or  a 
fallen  woman.  When  in  a  pathetic  mood  he  takes 
them  up,  breaks  the  hard  crust  of  degradation  with 
which  they  are  covered  and  in  a  measure  concealed, 
washes  away  the  filth,  sometimes  with  tears,  and  at 
the  last  moment  reveals  a  human  soul  redeemed  and 
lighted  by  some  divine  attribute : 

" '  Do  you  think,'  said  Mrs.  Tretherick  with  an  embar- 
rassed voice  and  a  prodigious  blush,  looking  down,  and 
addressing  the  fiery  curls  just  visible  in  the  folds  of  her 
dress, — 1  do  you  think  you  will  be  "  dood"  if  I  let  you  stay 
in  here  and  sit  with  me  ?' 

" '  And  let  me  tall  you  mamma?'  queried  Carry,  look- 
ing up. 

"  '  And,  let  you  call  me  mamma  !'  assented  Mrs.  Treth- 
erick with  an  embarrassed  laugh. 
"  1  Yeth,'  said  Carry,  promptly. 

"  They  entered  the  bedroom  together.  Carry's  eye  in- 
stantly caught  sight  of  the  trunk. 

" '  Are  you  dowin  away  adain,  mamma  ?'  she  said  with 
a  quick,  nervous  look,  and  a  clutch  at  the  woman's  dress. 

"  '  No-o,'  said  Mrs.  Tretherick,  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow. 

"  '  Only  playing  your  dowin  away,'  suggested  Carry  with 
a  laugh.    '  Let  me  play  too.' 

"  Mrs.  Tretherick  assented.  Carry  flew  into  the  next 
room,  and  presently  reappeared,  dragging  a  small  trunk, 


212 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


into  which  she  gravely  proceeded  to  paek  her  clothes.  Mrs. 
Tretherick  noticed  that  they  were  not  many.  A  question 
or  two  regarding  them  brought  out  some  further  replies 
from  the  child  ;  and,  before  many  minutes  had  elapsed,  Mrs. 
Tretherick  was  in  possession  of  all  her  earlier  history.  But, 
to  do  this,  Mrs.  Tretherick  had  been  obliged  to  take  Carry 
upon  her  lap,  pending  the  most  confidential  disclosures. 
They  sat  thus  a  long  time  after  Mrs.  Tretherick  had  appa- 
rently ceased  to  be  interested  in  Carry's  disclosures ;  and, 
when  lost  in  thought,  she  allowed  the  child  to  rattle  on 
unheeded,  and  ran  her  fingers  through  the  scarlet  curls. 

" 1  You  don't  hold  me  right,  mamma,'  said  Carry  at  last, 
after  one  or  two  uneasy  shiftings  of  position. 

"  '  How  should  I  hold  you?'  asked  Mrs.  Tretherick  with 
a  half-amused,  half-embarrassed  laugh. 

" 1  Dis  way,'  said  Carry,  curling  up  into  position,  with 
one  arm  around  Mrs.  Tretherick's  neck,  and  her  cheek  rest- 
ing on  her  bosom, — 1  dis  way, — dere.'  After  a  little  pre- 
paratory nestling,  not  unlike  some  small  animal,  she  closed 
her  eyes,  and  went  to  sleep. 

"  For  a  few  moments  the  woman  sat  silent,  scarcely 
daring  to  breathe  in  that  artificial  attitude.  And  then, 
whether  from  some  occult  sympathy  in  the  touch,  or  God 
best  knows  what,  a  sudden  fancy  began  to  thrill  her.  She 
began  by  remembering  an  old  pain  that  she  had  forgotten, 
an  old  horror  that  she  had  resolutely  put  away  all  these 
years.  She  recalled  days  of  sickness  and  distrust, — days  of 
an  overshadowing  fear, — days  of  preparation  for  something 
that  was  to  be  prevented,  that  was  prevented,  with  mortal 
agony  and  fear.  She  thought  of  a  life  that  might  have 
been, — she  dared  not  say  had  been, — and  wondered.  It 
was  six  years  ago :  if  it  had  lived  it  would  have  been  as 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


213 


old  as  Carry.  The  arms  which  were  folded  loosely  around 
the  sleeping  child  began  to  tremble  and  tighten  their  clasp. 
And  then  the  deep  potential  impulse  came,  and  with  a  half- 
sob,  half-sigh,  she  threw  her  arms  out,  and  drew  the  body 
of  the  sleeping  child  down,  down,  into  her  breast, — down 
again  and  again  as  if  she  would  hide  it  in  the  grave  dug 
there  years  before.  And  the  gust  that  shook  her  passed, 
and  then,  ah  me  !  the  rain." 

Mrs.  Tretherick  is  one  of  the  most  respectable 
personages  of  her  sex  to  be  met  with  in  Mr.  Harte's 
works.  Mrs.  Decker  is  an  unfaithful  wife  and  a 
detestable  woman ;  so  is  Mrs.  Brown ;  so  is  Mrs. 
Skaggs;  so  is  Jenny's  mother.  The  mother  of 
"  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp/'  the  mother  of  Tom 
in  the  "  Idyl  of  Red  Gulch/'  the  motherly  Miggles, 
the  "  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat/'  and  others  belong  to 
a  class  which  cannot  be  mentioned  in  polite  society. 
Mr.  John  Oakhurst  and  Jack  Hamlin  are  gamblers. 
Col.  Starbottle  is  a  repulsively  vulgar  pretender  to 
the  character  of  a  chivalrous  gentleman ;  he  is,  more- 
over, a  drunkard  and  a  duellist.  Old  Man  Plunket 
is  a  sot;  so  is  Johnson,  one  of  Mrs.  Skaggs's  hus- 
bands. "  The  Fool  of  Five  Forks"  seems  to  be  little 
better  than  an  imbecile,  as  does  also  "  The  Man  of 
No  Account." 

When  these  subjects  pass  in  review,  you  are  tempted 
to  ask  whether  what  has  been  said  of  Sterne  is  true 
of  Mr.  Harte :  "  If  he  goes  into  dirty  places,  it  is 
because  they  are  forbidden,  and  not  frequented. 
What  he  seeks  there  is  singularity  and  scandal.  The 

1!) 


JIOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


allurement  of  this  forbidden  fruit  is  not  the  fruit, 
but  the  prohibition  ;  for  he  bites  by  preference  where 
the  fruit  is  withered  or  worm-eaten. "  Seeing,  how- 
ever, that  in  most  of  these  personages  he  contrives 
to  uncover  some  generous  or  noble  quality  that  has 
escaped  destruction  or  degradation,  you  may  be  in- 
clined to  answer  your  own  query  by  the  assertion 
that  uncommon  humanity  in  the  author,  a  magnan- 
imity unrestrained  by  conventionalities,  and  not 
blinded  by  prejudices,  dictated  his  choice  of  charac- 
ters. This,  probably,  is  true  to  some  extent ;  but  the 
stronger  reason  for  the  use  of  such  subjects  is,  doubt- 
less, the  fact  that  their  originals,  at  any  rate  their 
suggestions,  surrounded  him  on  every  side  in  Cali- 
fornia as  it  was  when  the  seeds  of  these  tales  were 
planted  in  his  mind.  He  did  not  create ;  he  chose 
from  what  was  ready  to  his  hand  that  which  appealed 
most  directly  to  his  humor. 

Mr.  Harte's  verses  have  the  same  general  char- 
acter as  his  prose.  In  metrical  composition,  however, 
his  humor  has  not  free  play.  His  fancy  is  restrained 
by  the  laws  of  versification;  he  is  hampered  by 
rhythm  and  rhyme.  The  use  of  slang  and  the  vio- 
lation of  grammatical  rules  are  what  he  improperly 
dignifies  by  the  appellation,  dialect.  The  disregard 
of  all  canons  of  elegant  composition,  which  the 
employment  of  such  dialect  permits,  gives  wider  and 
freer  scope  to  the  humorist's  whims ;  and  thus  it  hap- 
pens that,  so  far  as  breadth  of  conception  and  treat- 
ment, vigor  and  liveliness  are  concerned,  some  of  his 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


215 


best  metrical  writings  may  be  found  in  this  class. 
Even  were  there  a  greater  deficiency  of  poetic  quali- 
ties in  the  works  of  this  sort,  the  strangeness  and  the 
boldness  of  their  style  would,  in  large  measure,  pre- 
vent its  detection  by  the  ordinary  reader : 

"  Beautiful !    Sir,  you  may  say  so.    Thar  isn't  her  match 

in  the  county. 
Is  thar,  old  gal, — Chiquita,  my  darling,  my  beauty  ? 
Feel  of  that  neck,  sir, — thar's  velvet !   Whoa  !   Steady, — 

ah,  will  you,  you  vixen  ! 
Whoa !  I  say.    Jack,  trot  her  out ;  let  the  gentleman 

look  at  her  paces. 

"  Morgan ! — She  ain't  nothin'  else,  and  I've  got  the  papers 
to  prove  it. 

Sired  by  Chippewa  Chief,  and  twelve  hundred  dollars 

won't  buy  her. 
Briggs  of  Tuolumne  owned  her.    Did  you  know  Briggs 

of  Tuolumne? — 
Busted  hisself  in  White  Pine,  and  blew  out  his  brains 

down  in  'Frisco  ? 

"  Hedn't  no  savey — hed  Briggs.    Thar,  Jack!  that'll  do, — 

quit  that  foolin' ! 
Nothin'  to  what  she  kin  do,  when  she's  got  her  work  cut 

out  before  her. 
Hosses  is  hosses,  you  know,  and  likewise,  too,  jockeys  is 

jockeys ; 

And 't  ain't  ev'ry  man  as  can  ride  as  knows  what  a  hoss 
has  got  in  him. 


216  HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 

"  Know  the  old  ford  on  the  Fork,  that  nearly  got  Flanigan's 

leaders  ? 

Nasty  in  daylight,  you  bet,  and  a  mighty  rough  ford  in 
low  water ! 

Well,  it  ain't  six  weeks  ago  that  me  and  the  Jedge  and 
his  nevey 

Struck  for  that  ford  in  the  night,  in  the  rain,  and  the 
water  all  round  us  ; 

"  Up  to  our  flanks  in  the  gulch,  and  Eattlesnake  creek  just 
a  bilin', 

Not  a  plank  left  in  the  dam,  and  nary  a  bridge  on  the 
river. 

I  had  the  gray,  and  the  Jedge  had  his  roan,  and  his  nevey, 
Chiquita  ; 

And  after  us  trundled  the  rocks  jest  loosed  from  the  top 
of  the  canon. 

"  Lickity,  lickity,  switch,  we  came  to  the  ford,  and  Chiquita 
Buckled  right  down  to  her  work,  and  afore  I  could  yell  to 
her  rider, 

Took  water  jest  at  the  ford,  and  there  was  the  Jedge  and 
me  standing, 

And  twelve  hundred  dollars  of  hoss-flesh  afloat,  and  a 
driftin'  to  thunder ! 

"Would  ye  b'lieve  it?  that  night  that  hoss,  that  ar'  filly, 
Chiquita, 

Walked  herself  into  her  stall,  and  stood  there,  all  quiet 
and  drippin' : 

Clean  as  a  beaver  or  rat,  with  nary  a  buckle  of  harness, 
Just  as  she  swam  the  Fork, — that  hoss,  that  ar'  filly, 
Chiquita. 


these  a  unions. 


217 


"  That's  what  I  call  a  hoss  !  and —    What  did  you  say  ? — 
Oh,  the  nevey? 
Drownded,  I  reckon, — leastways,  he  never  kem  back  to 
deny  it. 

Ye  see  the  derned  fool  had  no  seat, — ye  couldn't  have 

made  him  a  rider  ; 
And  then,  ye  know,  boys  will  be  boys,  and  hosses — well, 

hosses  is  hosses !" 

You  cannot  fail  to  notice  the  movement  in  these 
lines,  the  rush  of  the  riders,  the  rocks  rolling  behind 
them,  the  fall  of  the  rain,  the  mad  plunge  of  the 
filly,  the  sweeping  current,  the  swift  coming  home. 
You  perceive  how  vividly  the  scene  is  presented,  and 
with  how  few  words ;  how  little  is  actually  told,  how 
much  suggested.  Two  of  the  suggestions  especially 
strike  you :  the  care  for  the  filly,  the  carelessness 
for  the  man.  You  know  that  such  indifference  was 
characteristic  of  the  society  that  was  then  in  Califor- 
nia, and  is  not  a  poetic  invention;  and  you  know  that 
such  tender  care  of  a  horse  may  be  seen  wherever 
are  jockeys.  You  discern  likewise  how  much  the 
artist's  task  is  diminished  by  the  use  of  these  broken 
sentences,  these  dashes,  exclamation  and  interroga- 
tion points,  by  these  suggestions,  in  fact.  In  his 
more  conventional  versification,  want  of  smoothness, 
melody,  and  the  decorations  of  fancy  are  readily 
perceived.  Verse-writing  is  only  another  process  by 
which  he  works  the  rich  ores  found  in  his  California 
mine;  the  subjects  chosen  for  poetic  treatment  are 
very  much  like  those  selected  for  prose. 

19* 


218 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


"  Drunk  and  senseless  in  his  place, 
Prone  and  sprawling  on  his  face, 
More  like  brute  than  any  man 

Alive  or  dead —  - 
By  his  great  pump  out  of  gear, 
Lay  the  peon  engineer, 
Waking  only  just  to  hear, 

Overhead, 
Angry  tones  that  called  his  name, 
Oaths  and  cries  of  bitter  blame — 
Waked  to  hear  all  this,  and  waking  turned  and  fled  ! 

"  1  To  the  man  who'll  bring  to  me,' 
Cried  Intendant  Harry  Lee, — 
Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mine, — 
'  Bring  the  sot  alive  or  dead, 
I  will  give  to  him,'  he  said, 
'  Fifteen  hundred  pesos  down, 
Just  to  set  the  rascal's  crown 
Underneath  this  heel  of  mine  : 

Since  but  death 
Deserves  the  man  whose  deed, 
Be  it  vice  or  want  of  heed, 
Stops  the  pumps  that  give  us  breath, — 
Stops  the  pumps  that  suck  the  death 
From  the  poisoned  lower  levels  of  the  mine !' 

"  No  one  answered,  lor  a  cry 
From  the  shaft  rose  up  on  high  ; 
And  shuffling,  scrambling,  tumbling  from  below, 
Came  the  miners  each,  the  bolder 
Mounting  on  the  weaker's  shoulder, 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


219 


Grappling,  clinging  to  their  hold  or 

Letting  go, 
As  the  weaker  gasped  and  fell 
From  the  ladder  to  the  well, — 
To  the  poisoned  pit  of  hell 

Down  below ! 

"  1  To  the  man  who  sets  them  free,' 

Cried  the  foreman,  Harry  Lee, — 
Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mine, — 

'  Brings  them  out  and  sets  them  free, 

I  will  give  that  man,'  said  he, 

1  Twice  that  sum,  who  with  a  rope 

Face  to  face  with  Death  shall  cope. 

Let  him  come  who  dares  to  hope !' 

1  Hold  your  peace  !'  some  one  replied, 

Standing  by  the  foreman's  side ; 
'  There  has  one  already  gone,  whoe'er  he  be !' 

"  Then  they  held  their  breath  with  awe, 

Pulling  on  the  rope,  and  saw 

Fainting  figures  reappear, 

On  the  black  rope  swinging  clear, 
Fastened  by  some  skilful  hand  from  below ; 

Till  a  score  the  level  gained, 

And  but  one  alone  remained, — 

He  the  hero  and  the  last, 

He  whose  skilful  hand  made  fast 
The  long  line  that  brought  them  back  to  hope  and  cheer ! 

"  Haggard,  gasping,  down  dropped  he 
At  the  feet  of  Harry  Lee, — 


220 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mine; 
'  I  have  come,'  he  gasped,  1  to  claim 
Both  rewards.    Senor,  my  name 

Is  Ramon  ! 
I'm  the  drunken  engineer, — 

I'm  the  coward,  Senor  '  Here 

He  fell  over  by  that  sign 

Dead  as  stone !" 

It  is  hardly  needful  to  call  attention  to  the  con- 
trast as  to  freedom  and  strength,  terseness  and  vi- 
vacity, between  these  verses  and  the  story  of  Chiquita; 
or  to  comment  upon  the  plain  diffuseness,  repetitions, 
tautologies,  and  puerilities  into  which  the  necessity 
for  logical  continuity  of  thought  and  the  constraints 
of  more  conventional  versification  have  forced  the 
author. 

He  delights  in  melodramatic  characters,  melodra- 
matic costumes,  melodramatic  surprises,  emotions, 
effects.  He  never  rises  to  the  dignity  of  tragic  pas- 
sion, rarely  preserves,  even  for  a  short  time,  the  re- 
pose of  the  idyl,  only  occasionally  touches  what,  in 
the  narrower  sense  of  the  term,  is  called  sentimental, 
and  then  most  briefly.  Not  infrequently  he  gives 
graphic  and  tasteful  sketches  of  natural  scenery, 
which  are  never  too  minute,  never  too  much  pro- 
longed. Nevertheless,  the  stage  on  which  his  per- 
sonages move  is,  for  the  most  part,  decorated  with 
melodramatic  adjuncts,  bright  colors,  harsh  contrasts, 
lime  lights,  red  fire,  storms,  floods,  caverns,  preci- 
pices. 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


221 


"  We  checked  our  pace, — the  red  road  sharply  rounding ; 
We  heard  the  troubled  flow 
Of  the  dark  olive  depths  of  pines,  resounding 
A  thousand  feet  below. 

"  Above  the  tumult  of  the  canon  lifted, 

The  gray  hawk  breathless  hung ; 
Or  on  the  hill  a  winged  shadow  drifted 

Where  furze  and  thorn-bush  clung : 

"  Or  where  half-way  the  mountain  side  was  furrowed 
With  many  a  seam  and  scar ; 
Or  some  abandoned  tunnel  dimly  burrowed, — 
A  mole  hill  seen  so  far. 

"  We  looked  in  silence  down  across  the  distant 
Unfathomable  reach : 
A  silence  broken  by  the  guide's  consistent 
And  realistic  speech. 

"  c  Walker  of  Murphy's  blew  a  hole  through  Peters 
For  telling  him  he  lied  ; 
Then  up  and  dusted  out  of  South  Hornitos 
Across  the  long  Divide. 

" '  We  run  him  out  of  Strong's,  and  up  through  Eden, 
And  'cross  the  ford  below ; 
And  up  this  canon  (Peters'  brother  leadin'), 
And  me  and  Clark  and  Joe. 

"  1  He  fou't  us  game :  somehow,  I  disremember 
Jest  how  the  thing  kem  round ; 
Some  say  'twas  wadding,  some  a  scattered  ember 
From  fires  on  the  ground. 


222 


110  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


" 1  But  in  one  minute  all  the  hill  below  him 
Was  just  one  sheet  of  flame ; 
Guardin'  the  crest,  Sam  Clark  and  I  called  to  him. 
And, — well,  the  dog  was  game  ! 

"  '  lie  made  no  sign :  the  fires  of  hell  were  round  him, 
The  pit  of  hell  below. 
We  sat  and  waited,  but  we  never  found  him ; 
And — then  we  turned  to  go. 

"  1  And  then — you  see  that  rock  that's  grown  so  bristly 
With  chaparral  and  tan — 
Suthin'  crep'  out :  it  might  hev  been  a  grizzly, 
It  might  hev  been  a  man  ; 

"  '  Suthin1  that  howled,  and  gnashed  its  teeth  and  shouted 
In  smoke  and  dust  and  flame ; 
Suthin'  that  sprang  into  the  depths  about  it, 
Grizzly  or  man, — but  game  ! 

"  '  That's  all.    Well,  yes,  it  does  look  rather  risky, 
And  kinder  makes  one  queer 
And  dizzy  looking  down.    A  drop  of  whiskey 
Ain't  a  bad  thing  right  here !'  " 

In  all  this  author's  writings  the  continued  and 
often  very  strong  and  rapid  movement  is  character- 
istic of  a  humorist's  fancy,  which,  when  his  atten- 
tion is  aroused,  can  never  be  kept  at  rest. 

His  diction,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  is  not  rich, 
his  vocabulary  not  large.  He  is  often  at  a  loss  for 
synonymes,  and  repetitions  of  the  same  words  and 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


phrases  are  sometimes  so  frequent  as  to  attract  the 
reader's  attention.  In  each  kind  of  writing  he  so 
uses  the  language  at  his  command  that  his  meaning 
is,  at  least  generally,  expressed  with  force.  His  pic- 
tures are  strong,  clearly  and  sharply  denned,  very 
rarely  encumbered  or  confused  by  even  the  lightest 
superfluous  strokes.  If  he  cannot  create  or  construct 
largely,  he  has  unusual  skill  in  augmenting  and 
coloring,  in  bringing  salient  points  into  high  relief. 
Yet  when  reading  his  metrical  compositions  you  feel 
the  want  of  genuine  poetic  enthusiasm ;  you  miss 
the  grace  and  the  sweep  of  truly  poetic  imagination ; 
you  perceive  that  the  stanzas  are  not  the  irrepressible 
product  of  teeming  inspiration. 

His  prose  is,  in  almost  every  respect,  better  than 
his  verse.  In  both  kinds  of  work  he  constantly  ex- 
hibits the  same  characteristics,  and  the  same  limita- 
tions. These  are  not  such  as  circumscribe  and 
distinguish  the  great  poet  or  novelist;  but  they 
clearly  indicate  a  high  order  and  exquisite  kind  of 
humorist. 


224 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


A  SON  WHO  WOULD  EMULATE  HIS  FATHER. 

Nobility  obliges.  The  son  of  a  noble  father 
should  be  noble;  the  son  of  a  gifted  father  should 
have  gifts.  Such  is  the  reasonable  or  unreasonable 
sentiment  of  mankind,  and,  to  a  certain  degree,  this 
sentiment  becomes  a  rule  by  which  the  judgment  is 
more  or  less  guided  in  determining  the  merit  and 
rank  of  a  great  man's  son,  so  far  as  his  qualities  are 
indicated  by  his  doings.  Though  the  rule  may  be 
rational,  it  is  often  irrationally  applied.  For  the 
public,  frequently  the  critics  also,  who  sit  in  judg- 
ment on  the  son,  do  not  ask  whether  he  does  well, 
or  whether  he  does  as  his  father  did  at  the  same  age, 
but  whether  the  boy's  first  attempts  are  equal  to  the 
sire's  most  perfect  achievements.  They  test  the 
son's  beginnings  by  the  father's  endings.  Uncon- 
sciously or  otherwise,  this  rule  is  used  more  or  less 
in  judging  the  works  of  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne. 
His  father's  name  holds  a  lofty  place  on  the  roll  of 
American  men  of  genius.  His  best  works  have 
become  the  standard  by  which  the  achievements  of 
a  Hawthorne  are  to-  be  estimated.  It  is  forgotten 
that  "after  quitting  college  he  resided  many  years 
in  Salem,  leading  a  solitary  life  of  meditation  and 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


225 


study,  a  recluse  from  his  own  household,  walking 
out  by  night  and  passing  the  day  alone  in  his  room, 
writing  wild  tales,  most  of  which  he  burned,  and 
some  of  which,  in  newspapers,  magazines,  and  an- 
nuals, led  a  wandering,  uncertain,  and  mostly  unno- 
ticed life";  that  in  1832,  when  he  was  twenty -eight 
years  old,  "  he  published  in  Boston  an  anonymous 
romance,  which  he  has  never  since  claimed,  and 
which  the  public  have  not  been  able  to  identify."  It 
is  not  known,  at  least  not  remembered,  that  his 
"  Twice-Told  Tales,"  published  when  he  was  thirty- 
three  years  old,  attracted  little  attention  from  the 
general  public,  although  "  the  book  was  noticed  with 
high  praise  in  the  North  American  Revieio  by  Mr. 
Longfellow,  who  pronounced  it  the  work  of  a  man 
of  genius  and  of  a  true  poet."  Mr.  Nathaniel  Haw- 
thorne was  forty-two  years  old  when  he  published 
u  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse,"  and  forty-six  when 
the  public  was  stirred  by  " '  The  Scarlet  Letter/  a 
powerful  romance  of  early  New  England  life,  which 
became  at  once  exceedingly  popular,  and  established 
for  its  author  a  high  and  wide-spread  reputation." 

Now,  if  the  stature  of  the  son  is  to  be  gauged 
by  that  of  the  father,  it  is  but  fair  that  the  measure- 
ments which  are  to  be  compared  should  be  taken  at 
the  same  period  of  life.  The  size  and  strength  of 
the  boy  should  not  be  contrasted,  to  his  disadvan- 
tage, with  that  of  the  full-grown  man.  A  more 
catholic  method  of  criticism,  however,  would  be  to 
judge  the  works  of  both  by  a  broad  and  universal 

20 


22G 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


standard,  estimating  each  according  to  its  individual 
merits.  After  such  a  method  should  we  examine 
"  Idolatry/'  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne's  book,  recently 
published,  and  criticise  it  as  a  romance  and  as  a 
literary  work. 

This  book  bears  certain  general  family  resem- 
blances to  the  composition  of  the  elder  Hawthorne ; 
but  whether  these  result  from  a  filial  desire  to 
honor,  by  imitating,  a  worthy  sire,  or  are  inherited 
characteristic  features  of  the  young  author's  mind, 
cannot  yet  be  determined.  He  shows  a  strong  de- 
sire to  invest  his  story  with  a  certain  wildness;  to 
suggest  in  it  something  phantasmal;  to  surround  it 
with  a  weird  atmosphere,  made  at  times  even  a  little 
lurid;  to  render  it  mysterious.  But  he  either  does 
not  comprehend  the  difference  between  the  strong 
and  the  weak,  the  artistic  and  the  non-artistic,  the 
right  and  the  wrong  way  of  making  a  mystery,  or 
he  is,  as  yet,  unable  to  choose  and  to  use  the  right 
and  to  reject  the  wrong.  A  painting  may  be  mys- 
terious if  its  outlines  and  the  subjects  of  which  it  is 
composed  are  so  badly  distinguished  that  the  specta- 
tor cannot  discover  the  nature,  size,  and  shape  of  the 
objects,  the  purpose  of  the  colors,  or  the  painter's 
design.  But  such  mystery  is  unattractive,  unartistic, 
does  not  produce  the  proper  effect  of  mystery,  only 
excites  indifference  or  contempt.  Another  painting 
may  be  mysterious,  that  is,  it  may  accomplish  the 
purpose  of  mystery  when  so  used,  namely,  to  awaken 
what  is  called  mysterious  awe,  by  portraying  with 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


227 


striking  distinctness  beings  of  themselves  mysterious, 
but  so  well  delineated  that  their  apparent  reality 
causes  in  the  beholder  a  certain  awful  dread,  or  a 
kind  of  agreeable  terror.  Those  who  would  deal 
with  the  mysterious  should  have  the  magical  power 
to  master  and  command  it;  should  be  able  to  give  it 
form,  and  consistency  of  character  and  action  ;  other- 
wise it  overwhelms  them,  and  they  share  the  fate  of 
presuming  dabblers  in  the  black  art.  So  far  as  this 
particular  matter  is  concerned  the  work  of  the 
author  of  "  Idolatry"  is  more  like  the  first  than  the 
second  painting  mentioned.  He  seems  not  yet  to 
have  obtained  the  mastery  of  such  powers  as  he 
owns.  They  are  too  apt  to  carry  him  headlong  first 
in  one  direction,  then  in  another.  He  has  not  ac- 
quired the  skill,  if  he  possesses  the  strength,  to 
guide  the  chariot  which  his  father  conducted  with 
so  steady  a  hand.  While  preparing  to  set  out  he  is 
jaunty,  flippant,  apparently  quite  at  his  ease;  shakes 
the  reins  gayly,  seems  assured  of  the  mastery,  ap- 
pears to  have  the  steeds  under  control.  So  long  as 
this  seeming  control  lasts  he  is  not  in  earnest,  some- 
what vauntingly  displays  his  insincerity,  wants  the 
spectators  to  understand  that  he  is  not  seriously 
going  into  the  business  of  driving  the  fiery  horses, 
is  about  to  handle  the  ribbons  for  a  lark.  But 
when,  after  these  preliminaries,  he  mounts  the  car 
and  is  launched  in  full  career,  he  is  more  in  earnest, 
addresses  himself  more  seriously  to  the  work;  but 
the  control  is  gone.    Bunyan,  De  Foe,  and  others 


228 


J10W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


have  dealt  with  fables,  mysteries,  and  improbabili- 
ties in  such  a  way  as  to  make  them  appear  probable 
and  plain,  with  the  force  and  interest  of  realities. 
But  they  were  thoroughly  zealous,  ostensibly  believed 
all  that  they  related,  gave  due  heed  to  cause  and 
effect,  to  logical  sequence  therefore,  made  their 
microcosms  consistent,  harmonious,  complete;  mat- 
ters in  regard  to  which  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne  is 
far  too  negligent. 

Even  when  about  to  introduce  his  talisman  he 
takes  pains  to  disenchant  his  readers  by  constantly 
appearing  in  his  own  proper  person,  walks  up  and 
down  and  sings,  that  they  shall  hear  he  is  not  afraid, 
tells  them  plainly  himself  that  he  is  no  lion,  but 
only  Snug,  the  joiner : 

"  Story-tellers  labor  under  one  disadvantage  which  is 
peculiar  to  their  profession, — the  necessity  of  omniscience. 
This  tends  to  make  them  too  arbitrary,  leads  them  to  dis- 
regard the  modesty  of  nature  and  the  harmonies  of  reason 
in  their  methods.  They  will  pretend  to  know  things  which 
they  never  could  have  seen  or  heard  of,  and  for  the  truth 
of  which  they  bring  forward  no  evidence ;  thus  forcing  the 
reader  to  reject,  as  lacking  proper  confirmation,  what  he 
would  else,  from  its  inherent  grace  or  sprightliness,  be 
happy  to  accept." 

This  talisman  is  a  ring,  a  diamond  ring,  a  very 
beautiful  ring,  if  you  please,  but  as  handled  by  Mr. 
Hawthorne  a  useless  and  very  clumsy  piece  of  ma- 
chinery. A  story-teller's  necessary  omniscience  with 
all  its  disadvantages  would  have  served  him  much 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


229 


better.  The  constant  juxtaposition  and  intermixture 
of  commonplace  fact  and  palpable  fiction,  of  moral 
and  philosophical  platitudes,  uttered  in  the  author's 
own  person,  and  poetic  fancies  embodied  in  the  story 
render  the  work  incongruous,  somewhat  chaotic, 
altogether  inartistic.  This  story  is  emphatically  one 
in  which  nothing  commonplace  should  be  suggested  ; 
which,  as  much  as  possible,  should  move  independ- 
ent of  trite  facts;  which  should  whirl  the  reader 
along  its  own  orbit,  making  him  forget  essays,  homi- 
lies, philosophies,  realities.  The  fable  itself  is  fan- 
tastic. But  it  is  mixed  with  matter  not  at  all  ideal, 
quite  ponderous  and  cumbersome,  as  much  out  of 
place  as  would  be  a  moral,  metaphysical,  theological, 
or  philosophical  disquisition,  or  an  essay  on  hair  in 
a  story  of  the  Arabian  Nights  spoken  by  the  narrator 
in  her  own  character.  Freed  of  such  matter,  more 
clearly  defined  and  more  equably  upheld,  it  would 
be  a  stirring  and  thrilling  invention.  Now  it  is 
rather  evidence  of  undeveloped  inventive  power 
than  an  achievement  by  such  power.  The  author 
sometimes  rises  to  a  high  plane  of  ingenuity,  but,  as 
yet,  cannot  sustain  himself  there.  He  soars,  falls 
fluttering  to  the  earth,  soars  again,  and  again  de- 
scends. It  is  a  hopeful  sign  that  he  sometimes 
seems  to  be  conscious  of  this  deficiency  of  strength ; 
not  hopeful  that  he  resorts  to  weak  and  unfit  devices 
to  conceal  it.  When  he  envelops  his  tale  in  a  fog, 
throws  around  it  the  mystery  of  obscurity,  even  en- 
deavors to  excite  terror  spite  of  all  his  assurances 
20* 


230 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


that  there  is  nothing  supernatural  in  his  world, 
brings  forward  a  character  shrouded  in  a  mist  and 
says  :  look  out!  probably  this  may  be  the  devil !  he 
displays  rather  than  conceals  weakness.  When  ha, 
even  at  the  end,  leaves  the  reader  in  doubt  as  to  the 
parentage  of  Gnulemah,  forces  him  to  search  back 
for  hints  obscurely  thrown  out  relative  to  a  substitu- 
tion of  children,  makes  such  substitution  more  doubt- 
ful by  the  improbability  that  a  father  would  not 
observe  the  difference  between  his  own  and  another 
child  at  the  age  of  one  year,  keeps  the  whole  thing 
on  the  verge  of  incomprehensibility,  he  excites  dis- 
content rather  than  satisfaction.  And  the  matter  is 
aggravated  by  the  unlikely  bewilderment,  not  to  say 
stupidity,  of  the  bank  president,  the  fogginess  through 
which  the  author  has  seen  fit  to  make  such  insinua- 
tions as  he  deemed  sufficient  in  regard  to  the  fraud- 
ulent exchange  of  babies. 
— 

The  author's  carelessness  or  hardihood  in  writing 
out  his  story  corresponds  to  the  cleverness  or  bold- 
ness of  his  conceptions.  The  action  of  his  drama 
passes  twenty  years  ago.  It  is  related  to-day.  And 
speaking  as  of  to-day,  the  writer  says, — 

"  "Whoever  has  been  in  Boston  remembers,  or  has  seen, 
the  old  Beacon  Hill  Bank,  which  stood,  not  on  Beacon 
Hill,  indeed,  but  in  that  part  of  School  Street  now  occupied 
by  the  City  Hall." 

The  City  Hall  mentioned  was  placed  where  it  is 
certainly  not  much  less  than  twenty  years  ago,  and 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


231 


whoever  has  been  in  Boston  only  since  then  can 
neither  have  seen  nor  remember  the  old  Beacon  Hill 
Bank. 

Of  boldness,  recklessness,  want  of  discrimination, 
and  bad  taste  in  the  use  of  words,  the  following  cita- 
tions will  suffice  as  an  illustration  : 

"  Seems,  as  we  speak,  we  glimpse  his  majestic  figure.'5 
"  But  sometimes — as  now — let  him  glimpse  the  truth." 

"On  getting  out  of  the  harbor  she  steamed  into  a 
bank  of  solid  fog,"  and  must  have  stuck  fast  for  a 
time,  although  it  does  not  appear  that  she  carried 
away  even  her  bowsprit  by  the  shock,  for  she  "  only 
got  out  of  it  the  next  morning." 

"  The  voice  replied,  with  a  subdued  gusto." 

What  kind  of  a  voice  is  that  which  replies  with 
a  subdued  relish  of  anything? 

"  For  his  Berserker  blood,  which  boiled  only  at  heaven- 
and-hell  temperature." 

From  this  expression  it  would  be  inferred  that  the 
temperatures  of  heaven  and  of  hell  are  at  the  same 
degree,  which  is  unquestionably  heterodox ;  or  that 
the  temperature  at  which.  Berserker  blood  boils  is 
that  mean  heat  which  would  be  obtained  by  a  thor- 
ough intermixture  of  the  caloric  existing  in  both 
regions. 

i:  During  which  the  old  fellow  closely  scrutinized  his  in- 
tending passenger  from  head  to  foot." 


232 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


If  this  person  was  "  intending"  to  be,  lie  was  not 
yet  a  "  passenger if  he  was  already  a  u  passenger" 
he  was  not  "  intending"  to  become  one. 

"  Quantities  of  red  granite  and  many  blocks  of  precious 
marbles  were  understood  to  be  using  in  the  work." 

Using  what  ? 

"  Scarce  two  minutes  since  their  meeting,  yet  perhaps  a 
large  proportion  of  their  lives  had  meanwhile  been  charmed 
away." 

Here  the  author  commits  the  vulgar  error  of  using 
"  proportion"  in  the  sense  of  portion.  If  in  the  last 
citation  the  word  "  proportion"  receives  its  proper 
meaning,  the  whole  sentence  becomes  nonsense. 

"  Balder  knew  not  what  to  make  of  the  look  she  gleamed 
at  him." 

Here  gleam,  like  glimpse,  as  cited  above,  is  used 
as  an  active  verb. 

"  '  Hatred  !'  repeated  Gnulemah,  dislikingly ;  '  hatred, — 
what  is  it?:  " 

"  '  It  is  within  possibility  for  a  man  to  believe  himself 
wicked,  while  his  actual  conduct  is  ridiculously  blameless, 
even  praiseworthy !" 

Which  is  equivalent  to  saying  that  blamelessness 
may  be  worthy  of  ridicule — certainly  an  immoral 
sentiment. 

Instead  of  a  calm  and  simple  diction  most  apt  to 
give  an  air  of  truth  to  his  fiction,  and  impose  upon 
the  reader  the  effect  of  candor,  the  author's  style  is 
often  turgid,  frequently  strained  : 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


233 


"  His  soul — his  own  no  longer — was  bestridden  by  a 
frantic  demon,  who,  brimming  over  with  hot  glee,  drove 
him  whirling  blindly  on,  with  an  ever-growing  purpose  that 
surcharged  each  smallest  artery,  and  furnished  a  condensed 
dart  of  malice  wherewith  to  stab  and  stab  again  the  op- 
posing soul.'5 

"  One  tires  of  the  best  society,  uncondimented  with  an 
occasional  foreign  relish,  even  of  doubtful  digestibility." 

The  injudicious  use  of  a  violent  ellipsis  sometimes 
shocks  the  sensitive  reader  : 
"  He  was  more  true  than  had  he  tried  to  be  so." 
"  But  there  is  ever  a  warning  voice  for  who  will  listen." 

In  spite  of  its  many  and  glaring  faults  and  its 
obvious  deficiencies,  the  book  is  one  that  promises 
much  for  its  author  in  the  future,  if  he  will  but  de- 
velop, strengthen,  master  his  powers.  He  has  the 
disposition  of  an  artist;  let  him  become  one.  The 
very  attempt  at  what,  this  time,  he  has  but  partially 
achieved,  namely,  a  well- told  fantastic  tale,  original 
and  novel,  is  itself  praiseworthy  and  encouraging. 
He  has  a  strong  imagination  which  wants  discipline; 
some  logical  force,  which  needs  strengthening.  He 
has  a  poetic  fancy  which  should  be  placed  under  the 
guidance  of  good  judgment.  As  it  stands,  his  story 
is  interesting;  some  parts  of  it  to  an  uncommon 
degree.    He  can  make  a  good  simile  : 

"  '  The  weight  that  made  it  fall  is  of  the  earth,'  said  Bal- 
der (both  he  and  Gnulemah  had  been  watching  the  petal's 
course).  1  The  breeze  that  buoyed  it  up  was  from  heaven, 
and  so  it  is  with  man.    Were  there  no  heavenly  support, 


234 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


he  would  fall  at  once,  but  whether  or  not,  he  always  tends 
to  fall.'  " 

He  sometimes  states  clearly  a  profound  truth  : 
"  Properly  speaking,  there  is  no  mystery  about  men,  but 
only  a  great  dulness  and  lethargy  in  our  perceptions  of 
them.  The  secret  of  the  universe  is  no  more  a  secret  than 
is  the  answer  to  a  school-boy's  problem.  A  mathematician 
will  draw  you  a  triangle  and  a  circle,  and  show  you  the 
trigonometrical  science  latent  therein.  But  a  profounder 
mathematician  would  do  as  much  with  the  equation  man  !" 

He  is  able  to  give  a  good,  graphic,  glowing  descrip- 
tion of  a  pretty  girl : 

"  Hereupon  was  heard  within  a  quick  rustling  movement; 
the  curtain  was  thrust  aside,  and  a  youthful  woman  issued 
forth  amongst  the  warm  plants.  She  was  within  a  few  feet 
of  Balder  Helwyse  before  seeming  to  realize  his  presence. 
She  caught  herself  motionless  in  an  instant.  The  sparkle 
of  laughter  in  her  eye  sank  in  a  black  depth  of  wonder. 
Her  eyes  filled  themselves  with  Balder  as  a  lake  is  filled  with 
sunshine ;  and  he,  the  man  of  the  world  and  philosopher, 
could  only  return  her  gaze  in  voiceless  admiration. 

"  Were  a  face  and  form  of  primal  perfection  to  appear 
among  men,  might  not  its  divine  originality  repel  an  ordi- 
nary observer,  used  to  consider  beautiful  such  abortions  of 
the  Creator's  design  as  sin  and  degeneration  have  produced? 
Not  easily  can  one  imagine  what  a  real  man  or  woman 
would  look  like.  Painting  nor  sculpture  can  teach  us ;  we 
must  learn,  if  at  all,  from  living,  electric  flesh  and  blood. 

"  This  young  woman  was  tall  and  erect  with  youthful 
majesty.  She  stood  like  the  rejoicing  upgush  of  a  living 
fountain.    Her  contour  was  subtile  with  womanly  power, — 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


235 


suggesting  the  spring  of  the  panther,  the  glide  of  the 
serpent.  ^Warm  she  seemed  from  the  bosom  of  nature. 
One  felt  from  her  the  influence  of  trees,  the  calm  of 
meadows,  the  high  freedom  of  the  blue  air,  the  happiness 
of  hills.    She  might  have  been  the  sister  of  the  sun. 

"  The  moulding  finger  of  God  seemed  freshly  to  have 
touched  her  face.  It  was  simple  and  harmonious  as  a 
chord  of  music,  yet  inexhaustible  in  its  variety.  It  recalled 
no  other  face,  yet  might  be  seen  in  it  the  germs  of  a  mighty 
nation,  that  should  begin  from  her,  and  among  a  myriad 
resemblances  evolve  no  perfect  duplicate.  No  angel's  coun- 
tenance, but  warmest  human  clay,  which  must  undergo 
some  change  before  reaching  heaven.  The  Sphinx,  before 
the  gloom  of  her  riddle  had  dimmed  her  primal  joy, — be- 
fore men  vexed  themselves  to  unravel  God's  webs  from 
without  instead  of  from  within, — might  have  looked  thus  ; 
or  such  perhaps  was  Iris  in  the  first  flush  of  her  divinity, — 
fresh  from  him  who  made  her  immortally  young  and  fair. 

"  Balder's  eyes  could  not  frankly  hold  their  own  against 
her  gaze  of  awful  simplicity.  All  he  had  ever  done  amiss 
arose  and  put  him  to  the  blush.  Nevertheless,  he  would  not 
admit  his  inferiority  ;  instead  of  dropping  his  eyes  he  closed 
the  soul  behind  them,  and  sharpened  them  with  a  shallow, 
out-striking  light.  Without  understanding  the  change,  she 
felt  it  and  was  troubled.  Loftily  majestic  as  were  her  form 
and  features,  she  was  feminine  to  the  core, — tender  and 
finely  perceptive.  The  incisive  masculine  gaze  abashed  her." 

This  passage  is  one  of  the  most  favorable  illustra- 
tions of  the  author's  skill,  diction,  grasp  of  thought, 
fancy,  which  the  book  affords.  He  is  capable  of 
making  himself  a  successful,  possibly  a  great  writer. 


236 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


MR.  MOTLEY'S  LATEST  HISTORY. 

Mr.  Motley's  last  work,  published  in  two  vol- 
umes, under  the  title,  "The  Life  and  Death  of 
John  of  Barneveld,  Advocate  of  Holland,  with  a 
view  of  the  primary  causes  and  movements  of  the 
Thirty  Years'  War,"  is  a  historical  rather  than  bio- 
graphical composition.  The  author  has  clearly  stated 
the  purpose  with  which  he  wrote : 

"  This  work  aims  at  being  a  political  study.  I  would 
attempt  to  exemplify  the  influence  of  individual  humors 
and  passions — some  of  them  among  the  highest  and  others 
certainly  the  basest  that  agitate  humanity — upon  the  march 
of  great  events,  upon  general  historical  results  at  certain 
epochs,  and  upon  the  destiny  of  eminent  personages.  It 
may  also  be  not  uninteresting  to  venture  a  glance  into  the 
internal  structure  and  workings  of  a  republican  and  federal 
system  of  government,  then  for  the-  first  time  reproduced 
almost  spontaneously  upon  an  extended  scale.  Perhaps  the 
revelation  of  some  of  its  defects,  in  spite  of  the  faculty  and 
vitality  struggling  against  them,  may  not  be  without  value 
for  our  own  country  and  epoch.  The  system  of  Switzer- 
land was  too  limited  and  homely,  that  of  Venice  too  purely 
oligarchical,  to  have  much  moral  for  us  now,  or  to  render 
a  study  of  their  pathological  phenomena  especially  instruct- 
ive. The  lessons  taught  us  by  the  history  of  the  Nether- 
laud  Confederacy  may  have  more  permanent  meaning. 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


237 


"Moreover,  the  character  of  a  very  considerable  states- 
man at  an  all-important  epoch,  and  in  a  position  of  vast  re- 
sponsibility, is  always  an  historical  possession  of  value  to 
mankind.  That  of  him  who  furnishes  the  chief  theme  for 
these  pages  has  been  either  overlooked  and  neglected  or  per- 
haps misunderstood  by  posterity.  History  has  not  too  many 
really  important  and  emblematic  men  on  its  records  to  dis- 
pense with  the  memory  of  Barneveld,  and  the  writer  there- 
fore makes  no  apology  for  dilating  somewhat  fully  upon  his 
life-work  by  means  of  much  of  his  entirely  unpublished  and 
long-forgotten  utterances." 

These  utterances,  the  secret  correspondence  of 
Barneveld,  letters  of  kings,  princes,  ambassadors, 
and  agents,  State  papers  and  other  documents,  re- 
main, for  the  most  part,  out  of  the  common  reach  in 
the  archives  of  Holland.  They  are  unprinted ;  till 
within  a  short  time  they  were  wholly  inaccessible, 
and  have  rarely  been  read.  The  documents  relating 
to  Barneveld's  trial,  if  the  proceeding  against  him 
immediately  before  his  death  can  be  deemed  worthy 
of  this  designation,  were  for  a  long  time  hidden  from 
all  eyes.  The  persons  who  were  appointed  to  judge 
him  bound  themselves  by  an  oath  to  bury  the  record 
of  their  transactions  out  of  sight.  That  they  had 
reason  to  be  ashamed  of  their  work  and  to  wish  the 
manner  of  it  to  be  forgotten  is  plainly  enough  shown 
by  the  documents  themselves,  a  small  portion  of  which 
have  been  published  by  the  Historical  Society  of 
Utrecht.  Mr.  Motley  has  had  free  access  to  the 
archives,  gives  many  extracts  therefrom  and  a  synop- 

21 


238 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


sis  of  Barneveld's  examination  sufficiently  explicit  to 
make  clear  the  iniquity  of  the  Commissioners.  The 
testimony  which  the  author  has  thus  given  to  the 
world  is  a  valuable  contribution  to  the  history  of  a 
deeply  interesting  period. 

In  a  general  way  it  has  long  been  known  that  the 
Grand  Pensionary  and  Advocate  of  Holland  was  a 
profound  lawyer,  a  pure  patriot,  a  great  statesman, 
and  a  trustful  Christian.  Mr.  Motley's  work,  or 
rather  some  portions  of  it,  bring  the  reader  into  more 
intimate  relations  with  the  much-calumniated  hero — 
for  hero  he  was,  consistent,  persevering,  undaunted. 
Through  his  secret  correspondence  the  private  char- 
acter of  the  man,  the  operations  of  his  mind,  the 
aspirations  of  his  heart,  the  prophetic  forecast  and 
great  scope  of  his  powerful  intellect  are  advan- 
tageously displayed. 

"  The  ever-teeming  brain,  the  restless  almost  omnipresent 
hand,  the  fertile  pen,  the  eloquent  and  ready  tongue,  were 
seen,  heard,  and  obeyed  by  the  great  European  public,  by 
the  monarchs,  statesmen,  and  warriors  of  the  time,  at  many 
critical  moments  of  history,  but  it  was  not  John  of  Barne- 
veld  that  spoke  to  the  world.  Those  '  high  and  puissant 
lords  my  masters  the  States-General'  personified  the  young 
but  already  majestic  republic.  Dignified,  draped,  and  con- 
cealed by  that  overshadowing  title  the  informing  and  master 
spirit  performed  its  never-ending  task. 

"  Those  who  study  the  enormous  masses  of  original  pa- 
pers in  the  archives  of  the  country  will  be  amazed  to  find 
how  the  penmanship,  most  difficult  to  decipher,  of  the  Ad- 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


239 


vocate  meets  them  at  every  turn.  Letters  to  monarch 8, 
generals,  ambassadors,  resolutions  of  councils,  of  sovereign 
assemblies,  of  trading  corporations,  of  great  Indian  compa- 
nies, legal  and  historical  disquisitions  of  great  depth  and 
length  on  questions  agitating  Europe,  constitutional  argu- 
ments, drafts  of  treaties  among  the  leading  powers  of  the 
world,  instructions  to  great  commissions,  plans  for  European 
campaigns,  vast  combinations  covering  the  world,  alliances 
of  empire,  scientific  expeditions  and  discoveries — papers 
such  as  these,  covered  now  with  the  satirical  dust  of  centu- 
ries, written  in  the  small,  crabbed,  exasperating  characters 
which  make  Barneveld's  handwriting  almost  cryptographic, 
were  once,  when  fairly  engrossed  and  sealed  with  the  great 
seal  of  the  haughty  burgher-aristocracy,  the  documents 
which  occupied  the  close  attention  of  the  Cabinets  of 
Christendom."  t 

The  principal  title  of  the  work  is  a  misnomer ; 
since  the  author  says  very  little  of  the  first  sixty 
years  of  the  Advocate's  life,  contenting  himself  with 
stating  some  general  facts  and  a  reference  to  what 
has  been  said  of  the  great  statesman  in  his  "  former 
publications  devoted  to  Netherland  history  f  with 
an  occasional  glance  also  into  the  last  years  of  the 
sixteenth  century  for  some  thread  which  he  desires 
to  take  up.  He  gives  a  general  history  of  events  in 
Europe  with  which  Barneveld  was  in  some  way 
connected  during  the  last  ten  years  of  his  career,  as 
well  as  those  which  more  or  less  immediately  fore- 
cast and  precipitated  his  fate;  those,  also,  which 
made  clear  the  Advocate's  political  prescience.  In 
a  competent  work  professedly  giving  a  general  his- 


240  110  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


tory  of  Europe  from  1609  to  1619  Barneveld  could 
not  fail  to  be  one  of  the  central  and  strongest 
figures.  In  Mr.  Motley's  essay  he  is  hardly  more 
than  this.  Of  this  fact,  and  of  this  impracticability 
of  separating  his  story  from  that  of  European 
politics  and  wars,  the  author  seems  to  have  been 
fully  conscious. 

"  In  a  picture  of  the  last  decade  of  Barneveld's  eventful 
life  his  personality  may  come  more  distinctly  forward  per- 
haps than  in  previous  epochs.  It  will  however  be  diffi- 
cult to  disentangle  a  single  thread  from  the  great  historical 
tapestry  of  the  Republic  and  of  Europe  in  which  his  life 
and  achievements  are  interwoven.  He  was  a  public  man 
in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word,  and  without  his  presence 
and  influence  the  record  of  Holland,  France,  Spain,  Brit- 
ain, and  Germany  might  have  been  essentially  modified." 

The  convention  by  which  Spain  virtually  acknowl- 
edged the  independence  of  the  Dutch  Republic,  and 
concluded  with  it  a  truce  of  twelve  years,  was  signed 
in  the  spring  of  1609.  At  this  point,  when,  as  has 
been  intimated,  Barneveld  was  more  than  sixty 
years  old,  Mr.  Motley  takes  up  the  story.  At  least 
a  quarter  part  of  the  whole  work  is  chiefly  occupied 
with  the  doings  of  Henry  IV.  of  France  during  the 
last  year  of  his  existence,  from  the  spring  of  1609  to 
the  14th  of  May,  1610 ;  or  rather  "  Henry  of  France 
and  Navarre — soldier,  statesman,  wit ;  above  all,  a 
man  and  every  inch  a  king" — is  the  foremost  per- 
sonage on  the  scene,  while  the  voice  of  Barneveld  as 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


241 


prompter  is  heard  from  time  to  time.  Contrasted 
with  this  personage,  who  could  justly  say  of  himself 
in  naming  the  three  things  which  caused  him  to 
speak  freely  to  the  Ambassadors  of  the  States- 
General,  "  I  am  a  great  king,  and  I  say  what  I 
choose/'  is  the  little  James  I.  of  England,  while 
other  kings,  emperors,  princes,  dukes,  electors,  gen- 
erals, churchmen,  ambassadors,  prepare  their  respect- 
ive subordinate  parts  for  the  great  tragedy  of  the 
Thirty  Years'  War.  From  his  post  of  observation, 
the  Advocate  swept  the  scene  which  was  bounded  by 
the  horizon  of  Europe,  and  with  clear  foresight,  con- 
summate diplomatic  skill,  and  untiring  perseverance, 
sought  so  to  arrange,  oppose,  and  control  the  per- 
sonages as  to  bring  to  such  a  catastrophe  as  should 
most  conduce  to  civil  and  religious  freedom  the  drama 
about  to  begin. 

"  It  was  obvious  to  Barneveld  that  the  issue  of  the 
Cleve-Jiilich  affair,  and  of  the  tremendous  religious  fermen- 
tation in  Bohemia,  Moravia,  and  Austria,  must  sooner  or 
later  lead  to  an  immense  war.  It  was  inevitable  that  it 
would  devolve  upon  the  States  to  sustain  their  great 
though  vacillating,  their  generous  though  encroaching, 
their  sincere  though  most  irritating,  ally.  And  yet,  thor- 
oughly as  Barneveld  had  mastered  all  the  complications 
and  perplexities  of  the  religious  and  political  question, 
carefully  as  he  had  calculated  the  value  of  the  opposing 
forces  which  were  shaking  Christendom,  deeply  as  he  had 
studied  the  characters  of  Matthias  and  Rudolph,  of  Charles 
of  Denmark  and  Ferdinand  of  Gratz,  of  Anhalt  and  Maxi- 
21* 


242  HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


milian,  of  Brandenburg  and  Neuburgh,  of  James  and 
Philip,  of  Paul  V.  and  Charles  Emmanuel,  of  Sully  and 
Villeroy,  of  Salisbury  and  Bacon,  of  Lerma  and  Infantado; 
adroitly  as  he  could  measure,  weigh,  and  analyze  all  these 
elements  in  the  great  problem  which  was  forcing  itself  on 
the  attention  of  Europe — there  was  one  factor  with  which 
it  was  difficult  for  this  austere  republican,  this  cold,  unsus- 
ceptible statesman,  to  deal:  the  intense  and  imperious  pas- 
sion of  a  graybeard  for  a  woman  of  sixteen." 

The  history  of  this  imperious  passion  is  too  ro- 
mantic to  be  passed  over  lightly  by  the  biographer  of 
Barneveld.  Its  effect  was  undoubtedly  to  give  the 
Advocate  much  annoyance  and  trouble,  to  render  the 
great  king  indecisive,  apparently  capricious,  hard  to 
manage,  or  to  hold  firmly  to  a  prescribed  course. 
Further  than  this  it  does  not  appear  to  have  had 
any  direct  bearing  on  the  life  or  the  fate  of  Barne- 
veld. The  death  of  Henry  was  certainly  a  great 
calamity  to  the  cause  which  he  so  loyally  supported. 
But  it  is  far  from  certain  that  this  imperious  passion 
had  any  influence  upon  that  event.  Other  inde- 
pendent and  more  potent  causes  were  aiming  at  the 
accomplishment  of  this  crime.  Yet  the  author  lin- 
gers over  the  love  of  Henry  for  Margaret  Montmo- 
rency, and  the  intrigues,  adventures,  quarrels,  and 
political  combinations  and  ruptures  which  it  pro- 
duced, as  if  loth  to  leave  so  sentimental  a  subject  for 
the  dryer  details  of  diplomatic  contests,  religious 
animosities,  and  personal  hatreds  which  followed 
after,  in  which  the  last  years  of  the  Advocate's  life 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


243 


were  passed,  and  by  which  he  was  finally  over- 
whelmed. In  spite  of  all  his  folles,  the  manliness 
and  kingliness  of  Henry  plainly  exercised  a  fascina- 
tion on  the  author  which  led  him  to  enter  more 
largely  into  this,  to  the  ordinary  reader,  most  inter- 
esting portion  of  his  work,  than  his  avowed  purpose 
seemed  to  warrant;  unless  his  chief  purpose  was  "to 
exemplify  the  influence  of  individual  humors  and 
passions  upon  the  march  of  great  events,"  and  not 
to  write  the  story  of  the  life  and  death  of  John  of 
Barneveld.  Still,  the  reader  is  never  for  a  long  time 
permitted  to  be  unconscious  of  the  mighty  though 
invisible  presence  of  the  Dutch  statesman.  His 
untiring  spirit,  his  penetrating  genius,  are  to  be 
found  or  felt  constantly  at  work  in  every  political 
centre,  at  the  sources  of  power,  at  the  springs  of 
policy,  secretly  or  openly,  with  a  purpose  veiled  or 
clearly  revealed,  as  circumstances  or  the  astuteness 
or  stupidity  of  those  with  whom  he  had  to  deal 
seemed  to  demand.  But  however  clothed,  this  pur- 
pose was  noble,  unchanged,  pressed  forward  persist- 
ently and  with  consummate  skill. 

While  Barneveld  is  thus  employed  behind  the 
scenes,  the  more  theatric  personages  and  puppets  are 
fuming,  lolling,  colliding  upon  the  stage,  making 
many  blunders,  and  giving  the  prompter  infinite 
trouble,  borne  with  never-failing  patience.  Among 
these  personages  is  one  of  powerful  stature,  who 
comes  more  and  more  into  view  till  he  dominates 
the  scene  and  dictates  the  catastrophe,  namely,  Mau- 


244 


IIO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


rice  of  Nassau.  Francis  Aeersens,  busy,  skilful, 
unscrupulous,  a  visibly  efficient  actor  under  the 
Advocate's  instructions  during  the  first  acts,  retires 
as  Barneveld  conies  personally  upon  the  stage,  and 
subtly  uses  all  his  skill,  sharpened  by  hatred,  to 
destroy  the  man  who  had  opened  the  way  for  and 
made  him  great.  It  is  a  sad  commentary  on  human 
nature,  the  rewards  of  friendship  and  of  faithful 
well  doing,  that  Barneveld  may  be  said  to  have 
received  his  death  blows  from  the  two  men  for 
whom  he  had  done  most,  and  who  were  each  capable 
of  justly  estimating  his  labors,  his  disinterestedness, 
and  his  loyalty. 

Perhaps  in  nothing  more  than  in  his  persistent 
negotiations  with  the  King  of  Great  Britain  was  the 
Advocate's  admirable  temper,  far-seeing  statesman- 
ship, and  inexhaustible  patience  manifested:  "  He 
had  to  deal  on  the  most  dangerous  and  delicate 
topics  of  state  with  a  prince  who  trembled  at  danger 
and  was  incapable  of  delicacy ;  to  show  respect  for 
a  character  that  was  despicable,  to  lean  on  a  royal 
word  falser  than  water,  to  inhale  almost  daily  the 
effluvia  from  a  court  compared  to  which  the  harem 
of  Henry  was  a  temple  of  vestals.  The  spectacle 
of  the  slobbering  James  among  his  Kars  and  Hays 
and  Villierses  and  other  minions  is  one  at  which 
history  covers  her  eyes  and  is  dumb ;  but  the  repub- 
lican envoys,  with  instructions  from  a  Barneveld, 
were  obliged  to  face  him  daily,  concealing  their 
disgust,  and  bowing  reverentially  before  him  as  one 


THESE  A  UTHORS. 


245 


of  the  arbiters  of  their  destinies  and  the  Solomon  of 
his  epoch." 

In  sketching  the  wide-spread  picture  of  what  was 
going  forward  in  Europe  during  these  last  ten  years 
of  Barneveld,  his  historian  seems  to  have  stood 
rather  too  near  the  canvas;  so  near  that  his  vision 
did  not  continuously  grasp  all  that  was  passing  at 
the  same  time.  Hence  some  advancing  and  retreat- 
ing, some  repetitions,  some  faults  of  arrangement. 
At  any  rate  it  is  conceivable  that  the  transactions, 
essentially  dramatic  in  themselves,  might  have  been 
more  dramatically  presented.  Sometimes  confusion 
of  dates  is  apparent,  of  which  the  most  notable  ex- 
ample is  in  the  following  passage : 

"  The  discomfited  Leopold  swept  back  at  the  head  of  his 
mercenaries,  9000  foot  and  3000  horse,  through  Alsace 
and  along  the  Danube  to  Linz,  and  so  to  Prague,  ma- 
rauding, harrying,  and  blackmailing  the  country  as  he 
went.  He  entered  the  city  on  the  15th  of  February  1611, 
fighting  his  way  through  crowds  of  exasperated  burghers. 
Sitting  in  full  harness  on  horseback  in  the  great  square 
before  the  cathedral,  the  warlike  bishop  compelled  the 
population  to  make  oath  to  him  as  the  Emperor's  commis- 
sary. The  street  fighting  went  on  however  day  by  day, 
poor  Rudolph  meantime  cowering  in  the  Hradschin.  On 
the  third  day,  Leopold,  driven  out  of  the  town,  took  up  a 
position  on  the  heights,  from  which  he  commanded  it  with 
his  artillery.  Then  came  a  feeble  voice  from  the  Hrad- 
schin, telling  all  men  that  these  Passau  marauders  and 
their  Episcopal  chief  were  there  by  the  Emperor's  orders. 
The  triune  city — the  old,  the  new,  and  the  Jew — was  bid- 


NOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


den  to  send  deputies  to  the  palace  and  accept  the  imperial 
decrees.  No  deputies  came  at  the  bidding.  The  Bohe- 
mians, especially  the  Praguers.  being  in  the  great  majority 
Protestants  knew  very  well  that  Leopold  was  fighting  the 
cause  of  the  Papacy  and  Spain  in  Bohemia  as  well  as  in 
the  duchies. 

"  And  now  Matthias  appeared  upon  the  scene.  The 
Estates  had  already  been  in  communication  with  him, 
better  hopes,  for  the  time  at  least,  being  entertained  from 
him  than  from  the  flaccid  Rudolph.  Moreover  a  kind  of 
compromise  had  been  made  in  the  autumn  between  Matthias 
and  the  Emperor  after  the  defeat  of  Leopold  in  the  duchies. 
The  real  king  had  fallen  at  the  feet  of  the  nominal  one  by 
proxy  of  his  brother  Maximilian.  Seven  thousand  men  of  the 
army  of  Matthias  now  came  before  Prague  under  command 
of  Colonitz.  The  Passauers,  receiving  three  months'  pay 
from  the  Emperor,  marched  quietly  off.  Leopold  disap- 
peared for  the  time." 

The  date  of  the  action  mentioned  in  the  last  lines 
of  the  above  citation,  as  set  down  in  the  margin,  is 
October  9,  1610,  more  than  four  months  before 
Leopold  had  reached  that  city,  according  to  the  date 
first  given.  This  excursion  to  Prague  and  the 
Hradschin  might  seem  foreign  to  the  purpose  and 
scope  of  the  work,  and  it  might  appear  that  the 
author  had  become  interested  in  Leopold  during  the 
residence  of  that  personage  in  the  duchies,  and  was 
by  him  led  astray,  were  it  not  that  he  designed,  under 
the  title  which  he  has  chosen,  to  give  a  general  his- 
tory of  the  preparations  for  and  the  first  movements 
in  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  indicate  its  causes,  mar- 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


247 


shal  the  opposing  forces,  and  show  the  broad  expanse 
of  its  field;  in  short,  to  make  this  "the  necessary 
introduction  to  that  concluding  portion  of  his  labors 
which  he  has  always  desired  to  lay  before  the  public; 
a  History  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War." 

The  distinguished  historian's  love  of  vivacity  and 
variety  sometimes  leads  him  to  give  the  unlearned 
reader  unnecessary  trouble  by  rendering  some  per- 
sonage indefinite  through  the  use  of  different  desis:- 
nations  for  the  same  potentate ;  as,  for  instance,  in 
calling  a  character  Ferdinand  of  Styria  in  one  place, 
and  Ferdinand  of  Gratz  in  another.  Occasionally 
the  name  is  changed,  as  in  the  case  of  a  certain  Count 
first  mentioned  as  Hohenzollen,  and  afterward  as 
Zollen.  If  these  are  trifling  they  are  certainly  un- 
necessary faults.  At  rare  intervals  the  author's  dic- 
tion indicates  carelessness  or  haste  in  writing.  But 
in  the  main  his  style  is  excellent,  judiciously  varied 
according  to  the  changing  character  of  the  narrative. 
His  reflections,  deductions,  and  commentaries  con- 
cerning the  events  recorded  are  well  placed,  concise, 
and  significant.  What  he  says  about  the  feelings  of 
an  ill-used  ambassador  will  be  read  with  interest : 

"  It  is  no  wonder  that  the  Ambassador  was  galled  to  the 
quick  by  the  outrage  which  those  concerned  in  the  Govern- 
ment were  seeking  to  put  upon  him.  How  could  an  honest 
man  fail  to  be  overwhelmed  with  rage  and  anguish  at  being 
dishonored  before  the  world  by  his  masters  for  scrupulously 
doing  his  duty,  and  for  maintaining  the  rights  and  dignity 
of  his  own  country  ?    He  knew  that  the  charges  were  but 


248 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


pretexts,  that  the  motives  of  his  enemies  wore  as  base  as 
the  intrigues  themselves,  but  he  also  knew  that  the  world 
usually  sides  with  the  Government  against  the  individual, 
and  that  a  man's  reputation  is  rarely  strong  enough  to  main- 
tain itself  unsullied  in  a  foreign  land  when  his  own  Grovern- 
ment  stretches  forth  its  hand  not  to  shield,  but  to  stab, 
him." 

To  a  statesman  the  period  embraced  in  this  work 
is  truly  a  very  interesting  and  important  study ; 
most  of  all  to  a  republican  statesman,  illustrating, 
as  it  does  in  the  case  of  the  United  Provinces,  the 
absolute  necessity  of  a  government  which  shall  act, 
especially  in  timec  of  peace  and  prosperity,  as  a  co- 
hesive principle,  uniting  every  individual  citizen  to 
every  other,  strong  enough  to  resist  the  restlessness, 
selfishness,  party  spirit,  personal  animosities,  imagi- 
nary wrongs,  which  never  fail  to  become  active  and 
aggressive  so  soon  as  any  great  common  danger,  or 
common  interest,  ceases  to  impel  all  the  inhabitants 
toward  a  common  centre  and  a  common  union  for 
protection ;  that  is,  to  make  individual  selfishness  a 
common  bond.  Had  our  own  statesmen  of  revolu- 
tionary times  sufficiently  studied  the  political  history 
of  the  United  Netherlands  it  is  inconceivable  that 
they  would  have  made  the  error  committed  in  at- 
tempting to  put  into  successful  practice  the  Articles 
of  Confederation,  thus  in  effect  repeating  an  experi- 
ment which  so  shortly  before  had  led  only  to  a  series 
of  crimes  and  disasters  so  soon  as  the  outside  pressure 
of  foreign  enemies  was  withdrawn  by  the  establish- 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


249 


ment  of  the  twelve  years'  truce.  The  author  does, 
indeed,  prolong  his  work  somewhat  beyond  that 
period,  in  order  to  comprise  in  this  narrative  the 
immediate  consequences  of  Barneveld's  death,  such 
as  the  conspiracy  of  his  sons,  their  fate,  the  Roman- 
like  nobility  of  his  wife,  and  the  escape  of  Grotius. 
Leaving  the  war  at  the  commencement,  he  narrows 
the  scope  of  vision  till  it  embraces  only  that  which 
immediately  concerned  the  great  Advocate,  his  fam- 
ily, and  his  intimate  friends.  Truly,  the  old  man's 
end  nobly  crowned  his  work.  Grandly  did  he  meet 
his  accusers,  and  grandly  bear  himself  to  the  close. 
Such  conduct  was  to  be  expected  from  one  of  whom 
the  historian  with  apparent  truth  and  justice  speaks 
as  follows : 

"No  man  can  thoroughly  understand  the  complication 
and  procession  of  phenomena  attending  the  disastrous  dawn 
of  the  renewed  war,  on  an  even  more  awful  scale  than  the 
original  conflict  in  the  Netherlands,  without  studying  the 
correspondence  of  Barneveld.  The  history  of  Europe  is 
there.  The  fate  of  Christendom  is  there.  The  conflict  of 
elements,  the  crash  of  contending  forms  of  religion  and  of 
nationalities,  is  pictured  there  in  vivid  if  homely  colors. 
The  Advocate,  while  acting  only  in  the  name  of  a  slender 
confederacy,  was  in  truth,  so  long  as  he  held  his  place,  the 
prime  minister  of  European  Protestantism.  There  was  none 
other  to  rival  him,  few  to  comprehend  him,  fewer  still  to 
sustain  him. 

^  5(s  ;f;  :js  ;ji 

"  The  warnings  and  the  lamentations  of  Barneveld  sound 

22 


250 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


to  us  out  of  that  far  distant  time  like  the  voice  of  an  in- 
spired prophet.  It  is  possible  that  a  portion  of  the  wrath 
to  come  might  have  been  averted  had  there  been  many  men 
in  high  places  to  heed  his  voice.  I  do  not  wish  to  exagge- 
rate the  power  and  wisdom  of  the  man,  nor  to  set  him  forth 
as  one  of  the  greatest  heroes  of  history.  But  posterity  has 
done  far  less  than  justice  to  a  statesman  and  sage  who 
wielded  a  vast  influence  at  a  most  critical  period  in  the  fate 
of  Christendom,  and  uniformly  wielded  it  to  promote  the 
cause  of  temperate  human  liberty,  both  political  and  relig- 
ious. Viewed  by  the  light  of  two  centuries  and  a  half  of 
additional  experience,  he  may  appear  to  have  made  mistakes, 
but  none  that  were  necessarily  disastrous  or  even  mischiev- 
ous. Compared  with  the  prevailing  idea  of  the  age  in 
which  he  lived,  his  schemes  of  polity  seem  to  dilate  into 
larger  dimensions,  his  sentiments  of  religious  freedom, 
however  limited  to  our  modern  ideas,  mark  an  epoch  in 
human  progress,  and  in  regard  to  the  general  commonwealth 
of  Christendom,  of  which  he  was  so  leading  a  citizen,  the 
part  he  played  was  a  lofty  one.  No  man  certainly  under- 
stood the  tendency  of  his  age  more  exactly,  took  a  broader 
and  more  comprehensive  view  than  he  did  of  the  policy 
necessary  to  preserve  the  largest  portion  of  the  results  of  the 
past  three-quarters  of  a  century,  or  had  pondered  the  rela- 
tive value  of  great  conflicting  forces  more  skilfully.  Had 
his  counsels  been  always  followed  ;  had  illustrious  birth 
placed  him  virtually  upon  a  throne,  as  was  the  case  with 
William  the  Silent,  and  thus  allowed  him  occasionally  to 
carry  out  the  designs  of  a  great  mind  with  almost  despotic 
authority,  it  might  have  been  better  for  the  world." 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


251 


A  LITERARY  CURIOSITY. 

If  Mr.  John  Walker  Yilant  Macbeth  has  any 
enemies  let  them  rejoice,  for  he  hath  written  a  book, 
and  its  title  is,  "  The  Might  and  Mirth  of  Litera- 
ture." It  is  a  work  which  one  may  read  without 
any  tiresome  exercise  of  judgment  or  discrimination. 
The  author  tells  you  what  you  must  think  of  it. 
Here  is  his  "Introductory  Notice:" 

"  The  object  of  this  volume  is  to  create  and  fully  equip 
a  new  branch  of  study ;  to  discuss  Figures  of  Speech  far 
more  thoroughly  than  ever  has  been  done ;  to  urge  upon 
pleaders,  preachers,  and  all  who  write  or  speak  English, 
many  very  important  practical  advices ;  to  comment  spe- 
cially on  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Demosthenes,  and  the  Bible  ; 
to  present  a  wide  review  of  American  and  English  liter- 
ature;  and  to  make  the  whole  subject  as  amusing  and 
laughter-exciting  as  it  is  instructive.  Also,  we  have  availed 
ourselves  of  our  familiarity  with  Latin,  Greek,  and  He- 
brew ;  and  with  four  of  the  modern  languages,  French, 
German,  Italian  and  Spanish." 

And  here  is  a  part  of  his  "Introduction 

"  This  volume  will  thus  possess  strict  artistic  and  scien- 
tific unity.  Besides — and  of  this  assertion  the  severest 
scrutiny  is  challenged,  the  affirmation  being  very  venture- 


252 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


some  and  improbable — the  author  avers  that  this  plan  of 
his  has  the  merit,  even  at  this  late  day,  of  the  most  entire 
originality  ;  never  before  has  figurative  language  been  taken 
as  a  point  from  which  to  examine  a  whole  literature. 

"  This  volume  claims  to  be  of  the  greatest  value  in  study- 
ing language  and  literature,  and  of  special  use  to  all  public 
speakers — for  instance,  to  clergymen  and  to  lawyers." 

Throughout  his  book  this  author  makes  very  fre- 
quent mention  of  the  Bible,  and  references  to  it,  to 
the  figures  of  speech  to  be  found  therein,  and  to  their 
important  bearing  on  theological  and  other  questions. 
But  in  liis  practice  he  seems  not  to  have  been  guided 
by  the  teachings  of  one  of  these  figures,  and  indeed 
he  appears  entirely  to  have  neglected  it,  namely: 
"  Let  not  him  that  girdeth  on  his  harness  boast  him- 
self as  he  that  putteth  it  off."  No  Philistine  giant 
or  Homeric  hero  ever  boasted  more  loudly  or  more 
pleonastically  when  engaging  in  a  gentle  and  joyous 
bout  with  a  deadly  enemy,  than  does  Mr.  Macbeth 
when  he  begins  to  slash  around  among  "  Front  cuts, 
Middle  cuts,  End  cuts,"  and,  according  to  his  cata- 
logue, one  hundred  and  twenty-two  other  figures. 
The  murderous  Thane  of  Cawdor,  the  first  known 
end  cutter  of  the  same  family  name,  was  far  from 
being  a  match  for  him.  While  still  in  his  introduc- 
tion he  says, — 

"  You  cannot  too  soon  form  a  very  high  opinion  of  the 
many  high  qualities  of  the  one  syllabled  words  of^our 
tongue.    The  quickest  way  to  get  into  such  an  opinion  is 


THESE  A  UTHORS. 


253 


for  each  reader  to  go  a-botanizing,  and  form  a  herbarium  of 
at  least  a  hundred  such  lines.  Exquisitely  will  you  be 
rewarded.  We  have  collected  a  few.  Your  gathering  of 
a  hundred  of  them  will,  of  itself,  entitle  you  to  be  named  a 
person  of  exquisite  taste ;  while  you  will  have  in  your  pos- 
session a  pellucid  fountain  of  enjoyment  the  most  refined." 

Then  follow  nineteen  examples  of  such  lines. 
Fourteen  of  these  examples  are  cited  from  such 
writers  as  Leigh  Hunt,  Byron,  Hey  wood,  Wild, 
Chaucer,  Shakspeare,  Milton,  Moir,  Tennyson, 
Campbell,  and  Sir  Philip  Sidney;  five  of  them  are 
from  the  author's  own  poetry,  of  which  two  samples 
are  quoted  below : 

"  God  wept !    The  tear  He  shed,  its  name  was  Christ." 

"  As  far  at  sea  is  seen  a  peak  of  And, 
Its  base  in  cloud,  but  o'er  its  top  the  sun ; 
So  God,  though  wrapt  in  dusk,  yet  crowned  with  Christ ! 
And  so  we're  sure,  as  Love's  great  day  rolls  on, 
The  clouds  will  lift,  and  vales  of  Prime  be  shown." 

If  you  look  at  the  index  you  will  find  in  its  alpha- 
betical place  the  following : 

"  Author  of  this  volume  gives  us  twenty-one  bits 
of  poesy with  due  reference  to  the  several  pages 
on  which  these  choice  bits  may  be  found.  They 
are  introduced  by  such  phrases  as  these: 

"  '  In  the  subjoined,  the  author  of  this  volume  concludes 
with  'suagefor  assuage  ;'  1  Your  author  lays  before  you  this, 
from  an  address  to  the  aged ;'  1  Your  author  presumes  to 

22* 


254 


HOW  THE  V  STB  IKE  ME, 


intrude  on  you  an  instance  and  more  than  one ;'  '  Your 
author  inflicts  on  you  an  instance ;'  '  Permit  us  to  cool  our 
indignation  by  launching  a  moment,  like  Addison's  man 
and  horse,  into  "a strain,"  one  of  our  own.'    'We  close 
our  discussion  of  the  metaphor  with  "  The  Three  Mourn- 
ers," translated  by  us  from  the  German  of  Charmisso,  and 
never  presented  in  English  before.    In  this  translation  we 
claim  the  whole  of  the  metaphor  in  line  eighteenth  ;'  1  We 
take  leave  of  metonymy,  this  elegant  department  of  our  sub- 
ject, by  giving  a  specimen  of  our  own  ;'  '  From  the  Italian 
of  Giambatista  Volpe  permit  your  author  to  translate  for 
you  the  following  sonnet ;'  {  Your  author  inflicts  on  you 
both  classes'  [of  epithets]  ;  1  Your  author  ventures  ;'  1  Or 
again,  your  author,  translating  from  the  Spanish  ;'  '  Your 
author  supplies  an  instance:'  'Let  your  author  inflict  on 
you  these  lines,  that  close  with  front  rhyme  ;'  '  Or  conde- 
scend to  read  from  your  author ;'  '  We  close  with  an  allu- 
sion of  our  own  ;'  '  We  foist  on  our  audience  an  instance  of 
our  own ;'  '  Permit  us  to  fancy  that  a  pulpit  orator,  after  a 
vehement  storm  of  appeal  against  vices,  paused  into  a  whis- 
per and  said  ;'  '  Permit  your  author  one  little  liberty  more ; 
he,  if  little  in  reason,  is  abundant  in  rhyme  !'  '  We  exclaim 
in  our  own  words.' 

Mr.  Macbeth  esteems  his  work  more  immediately 
under  consideration  quite  as  highly  as  he  does  his 
poesy,  and  he  loses  no  opportunity  to  express  his 
opinion  : 

" '  Let  the  reader  of  this  volume,  who  is  wise  enough  to 
strive  to  be  a  student  of  it.'  '  This  chapter  is  by  far  the 
most  complete  treatment  of  metonymy  the  world  has  ever 
seen.'    '  This  is  the  fullest  treatise  on  tropes  that  ever  the 


THESE  A  UTHORS. 


2*, 


English  or  any  literature  has  seen.'  '  We  have  now 
enumerated  seventeen  kinds  of  repetition.  No  such  minute 
specification  has  been  made  in  any  modern  literature.  But 
we  hasten  to  wind  up  this  subject  with  a  specimen  from 
our  studies  in  those  four  admirable  modern  languages  to 
which  we  have  given  many  a  year's  attention.'  '  This 
volume,  which  we  present  to  them,  is  really  the  only  book 
in  the  world  in  which  the  public  speaker  can  find  his  war- 
gear  described.'  '  To  pray  to  God  with  Aristotle  and 
Demosthenes,  as  in  the  course  of  our  studies  we  have 
naturally  come  on  them  doing.'  '  Grant  to  us  now  one 
other  indulgence — of  availing  ourselves  of  our  familiarity 
with  the  noble  and  melodious  Spanish  literature.'  '  Laying 
before  you  an  example,  translated  by  us  from  the  French 
of  Victor  Hugo.'  '  Our  professional  occupation  brings 
Old  Homer  before  us  so  continually  that  we  are  led  to 
think  of  epithets  almost  every  hour  of  the  day.'  '  This 
quality  of  style  we  are  constrained  to  urge  upon  you  from 
our  long  and  so  minute  study  of  Shakespeare,  the  inimita- 
ble.' '  Befittingly  we  close  with  a  sweet  strain  from  the 
Spanish  on  Peace,  which  we  translate  for  you.'  '  At  last 
to  our  concluding  figure  have  we  come ;  claiming,  on  the 
one  hand,  that  the  treatment  of  our  subject  is  by  far  the 
fullest  discussion  it  has  ever  received." 

Is  not  this  mirth  provoking?  Are  you  not  con- 
vinced that  this  book  is  at  least  worthy  of  the  second 
half  of  its  title  ?  Can  you  not  already  clearly  per- 
ceive that  the  author  has  accomplished  one  of  his 
avowed  purposes,  and  made  his  work  "as  amusing 
and  laughter-exciting  as  it  is  instructive?"  The 
book,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  is  so  fascinatingly  bad  . 


250 


JIOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


Bad  ?  You  say  it  makes  frequent  references  to  the 
Bible,  and  surely  the  author's  poesy  is  of  a  religious 
kind.  True,  and  that  is  one  reason  why  the  work 
is  likely  to  do  mischief,  especially  to  a  certain  class 
of  young  writers  whose  style  is  yet  to  be  formed, 
and  who  are  eagerly  looking  for  guidance.  Some 
persons  of  little  knowledge  and  great  faith  believe 
that  a  man  who  quotes  the  sacred  Scriptures  and 
talks  against  Popery  and  atheism  can  err  in  no 
respect ;  that  his  style  must  be  a  model,  his  taste 
faultless,  his  reasoning  unanswerable,  his  judgment 
infallible.  And  yet  there  are  such  men  who  are  safe 
guides  in  nothing.  Now,  the  author  of  this  volume, 
which,  according  to  his  assertion,  possesses  "strict 
artistic  and  scientific  unity,"  leaves  his  prescribed 
limits  time  and  again  to  rush  at  transubstantiation, 
and  to  show  that  "  the  correct  doctrine  of  metaphor 
sweeps  the  doctrine  of  transubstantiation  out  of  the 
Scriptures,"  repeating  his  arguments  and  assertions 
over  and  over.  In  a  like  way  he  breaks  all  artistic 
bounds  to  enter  into  discussions  of  other  theological 
questions,  and  attempts  to  establish  that  "synecdoche 
scatters  the  error  that  the  Redeemer  is  destitute  of 
a  human  soul,"  and  "how  thoroughly  it  proves  a 
bulwark  against  heresy,  even."  Or  he  assails  athe- 
ism without  any  reference  to  the  promised  "strict 
artistic  and  scientific  unity"  of  his  work,  declaring, 
among  other  things,  that  "atheism  dwarfs  men; 
dwarfs,  beclouds  everything;  disintellects  the  uni- 
verse; dries  literature  into  sandy  dust." 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


257 


Lest  any  person  should  mistake  the  motive  of 
these  remarks,  let  it  be  said  that  we  have  nothing  to 
urge  in  favor  of  transubstantiation,  that  we  cannot 
understand  how  any  fairly  well  balanced  and  healthy 
man  can  be  an  atheist,  and  that  we  regard  the  Bible 
with  quite  as  much  veneration  as  does  Mr.  Macbeth 
himself.  That  very  book,  however,  teaches  that 
there  is  a  time  for  all  things ;  and  the  time  for 
hurling  sectarian  dogmas  at  religious  opponents  does 
not  coincide  with  that  set  apart  for  the  "  artistic  and 
scientific"  study  of  figures  of  speech.  Animadver- 
sions upon  these  and  very  many  other  matters,  pleas 
for  the  scriptures,  for  Protestantism,  for  poetry,  for 
an  improved  translation  of  the  Bible,  denunciations 
of  dull  preachers,  of  unbelievers,  of  free  thinkers, 
of  tenets  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  which  he 
repeats  again  and  again  without  any  regard  for  the 
congruity  of  his  discourse,  the  intelligence  or  the 
patience  of  his  readers,  occupy  many  of  his  pages, 
and  swell  the  book  to  a  discouraging  size.  As  an 
example  of  how  these  extraneous  themes  are  intro- 
duced, read  the  following : 

"  By  the  time  this  page  has  been  reached,  every  reader 
feels  the  vast  importance  of  our  subject.  Think  of  the 
great  historical  words  :  '  This  is  my  body.'  Ah,  the  tens  of 
thousands  slaughtered  for  transubstantiation  !  According 
to  Protestantism  and  the  laws  of  metaphor,  '  this'  is  literal ; 
'  body'  is  literal ;  '  is'  stands  for  '  represents' — a  sense  em- 
phatically given,  which  it  has  thousands  of  times.  Accord- 
ing to  the  priests,  '  this'  is  literal ;  \  body'  is  literal ;  '  is' 


258 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


stands  for  1  is  changed  into' — a  sense  it  never  has.  Which 
of  the  two  parties  is  the  more  literal?  Our  subject  holds 
within  it  such  truths,  laws,  applications,  as  would,  by  God's 
blessing,  have  saved  to  the  earth  much  of  the  most  precious 
blood ;  and  tortures  so  dire  in  their  cruelty,  so  cowardly  in 
the  circumstances  of  their  infliction,  that  at  the  recollection 
of  them  history  blushes.  Is  our  subject  trivial,  then  ?  De- 
graded so  long  by  lame,  shallow,  unphilosophical  handling  !" 

Although  the  author  takes  care  to  say,  from  time 
to  time,  that  figures  of  speech  must  be  the  natural 
outgrowth  and  expression  of  thoughts  and  emotions, 
yet  he  so  eulogizes  the  various  figures  of  which  he 
treats  as  to  create  an  impression  on  an  inexperienced 
reader  that  each  figure  has  in  itself  some  wonderful 
power  and  beauty,  even  when  used  artificially  and 
arbitrarily. 

"  Give  five  or  six  days  to  such  an  examination  of  the 
effect  in  his  (Shakespeare's)  hands  of  front-cuts,  mid-cuts, 
and  end-cuts,  and  you  will  be  astonished  at  the  superb  uses 
which  a  master  can  make  of  even  the  minutest  and  most 
opposite  dexterities  of  diction." 

"  This  line  feels  to  us  unsurpassable.  Please  make  a 
study  of  it.  It  owes  a  very  great  deal  to  the  humble  aid 
of  front-cut.  We  have  not  words  to  express  the  refined 
delight  which  such  usages  of  language  give  us.  Croon  it 
over  at  least  a  hundred  and  fifty  times." 

"  Enallage  is  the  figure  we  proceed  with — of  very  great 
value ;  the  use  of  one  part  of  speech,  or  of  one  modifica- 
tion of  a  part  of  speech  for  another.  We  lay  before  you 
twenty-six  varieties,  each  deserving  to  rank  as  a  separate 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


259 


figure.  Judge  sternly  for  yourself  if  they  lead  you  not 
deep?  and  with  a  Venus-like  hand,  into  the  inmost  recesses 
of  this  vast  forest  which  we  call  language.  The  following 
is  the  fullest  account  of  enallage  that  has  ever  appeared. 
Gather  out  of  Scripture  two  hundred  varieties — a  feast  of 
strawberries  for  your  own  private  eating ;  and  then  a  hun- 
dred cases  of  each  individual  sort." 

The  only  thing  in  the  work  likely  to  counteract 
such  erroneous  impression  effectually  is  the  author's 
style,  especially  when  he  embellishes  it  with  speci- 
mens of  the  figures  wrhich  he  has  under  consideration 
at  the  time : 

"  This  use  of  one  case  for  another  struts  about  in  the 
literary  realm  by  no  less  a  name  than  XXIX.,  Antiptosis. 
What  dignity  doth  a  Greek  work  of  four  syllables  give  to 
the  matter !  By  no  means  was  that  boy  beslapped  aware 
what  a  classical  antiptosian  way  of  speaking  was  his.  So 
we  are  informed  by  the  rhetors  that  XXX.,  Antemeria,  is 
the  use  of  one  part  of  speech  for  another;  while  the  use 
of  one  form  of  noun,  pronoun,  or  verb  for  another  is 
XXXI.,  Heterosis !" 

"Is  it  always  that  the  snow  wreaths  lie  smooth  in  the 
gusty  nooks  of  the  hills?  Knows  little  of  language  he 
who  will  deny  that  words  can  be  whirled  even  more  wildly 
than  snow  flakes." 

"  Old  age  by  no  means  so  naturally  suggests  the  thought 
of  a  picture  as  it  does  the  thought  of  the  sepulchre,  to 
which  the  tottering  step  of  Eld  is  so  inevitably  drawing- 
near." 

"  On  the  other  hand  when  the  first  sin  volcanoes  out  its 
way,  Milton  tells  us  with  the  deepest  poetic  truth." 


260  110  w  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 

11  Mrs.  Barbauld,  a  writer  of  uncommon  vigor,  writes  of 
the  discomforts  of  a  washing  day.  Not  is  it  the  hand  that 
can  be  impatient." 

"  Samuel  Lover,  another  inimitable  Irishman,  also  dealeth 
sorrowfully  in  widows." 

"  Spiritualization  deserves  mention,  however  shortly;  let 
us  be  lubricated  by  Samuel  Fergusson.  He  speaks  of  a 
pretty  maid :  We  see  a  material  object  turned  to  an  ethereal 
use." 

"  We  invite  all  our  readers  to  take  the  same  reveren- 
tial position  as  to  the  remarkable  but  very  defensible  case 
of  Balaam,  which  we  take  and  defend.  Not  doth  the 
sacred  narrative  require  us  to  hold  literal  speech  by  the 
bodily  organs  and  by  the  intellect  of  the  animal ;  but 
speech  by  an  angelic  minister,  who  could  speak  as  easily 
from  an  animal's  mouth  as  from  any  other  place.  Then 
weigh  our  argument  from  literature  and  from  figures — an 
argument  entirely  new." 

By  this  time  the  reader  is  probably  convinced  that 
this  author  has  very  clear  instinctive  perceptions  of 
what  was  the  real  matter  with  Balaam's  ass,  how  he 
actually  felt,  and  what  he  would  be  likely  to  do,  and 
what  not  to  do.  He  seems  to  have  written  the  book 
under  consideration  chiefly  from  a  desire  to  do  some 
preaching,  to  display  his  knowledge,  more  especially 
to  exhibit  his  "  bits  of  poesy,"  and  his  "  familiarity 
with  Latin,  Greek,  and  Hebrew,  and  with  four  of 
the  modern  languages,  French,  German,  Italian,  and 
Spanish;"  also  to  make  known  the  scope  of  his 
reading,  his  critical  acumen,  his  ingenuity  in  detect- 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


201 


ing  and  discovering  figures  of  speech,  and  his  ability 
to  instruct  all  mankind.  To  make  a  full  exhibition 
of  all  his  acquisitions,  he  lugs  in  a  great  variety  of 
matter  impertinent  to  his  proposed  subject,  while  he 
fails  to  discriminate  with  reasonable  nicety  between 
what  are  and  what  are  not  such  figures  of  speech  as 
should  properly  come  within  even  the  widest  treat- 
ment, and,  in  some  cases,  between  one  figure  and 
another,  as  when  he  says,  "We  have  recourse  to 
metaphor  when  one  says,  pointing  to  a  portrait  on 
the  wall,  *  This  is  Washington/  "  where  he  evidently 
calls  ellipsis  by  another*  name.  The  full  sentence 
would  be,  "  This  is  a  portrait  of  Washington."  But 
it  was  important  to  one  of  his  arguments  on  the 
text,  "  This  is  my  body,"  and  to  show  how  "  the 
correct  doctrine  of  metaphor  sweeps  the  doctrine  of 
transubstantiation  out  of  the  Scriptures,"  that  he 
should  make  "  is"  in  both  cases  mean  "  represents." 
The*  reader  will  perceive  that  the  author  has  made 
ostentatious  show  of  extensive  reading,  but  he  will 
also  find  reason  to  suspect  that  no  small  part  of  his 
citations  and  of  the  comments  upon  them  were  taken 
at  second  hand ;  and  when  he  comes  to  the  passage 
of  the  work  quoted  below  he  will  doubt  the  writer's 
accuracy : 

"  Metathesis  next  claims  attention,  or  twisting,  usually 
at  the  bidding  of  humor,  of  the  letters  of  a  word  into  some 
different  order  of  arrangement.  You  will  detect  it  in  the 
following  four  pathetic  lines  by  Tom  Moore,  the  Irish  bard, 

23 


2652 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


wherein  he  bemoans  his  destiny,  which  all  of  us  have 
shared,  in  being  caught  in  a  heavy  shower  umbrellaless : 

"  lO  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour, 
Has  chilling  fate  upon  me  fell  ; 
There  always  comes  a  soaking  shower 
When  I  hain't  got  an  umberell.'  " 

And  when,  after  a  citation  of  some  lines  from  a 
poem  made  between  the  years  1360  and  1370,  the 
reader  finds  the  following  comment,  he  is  sure  that 
the  author  does  not  always  use  the  English  language 
correctly,  especially  the  word  "  refers 

"  In  our  humble  opinion,  no  more  pathetic  passage  in  all 
our  literature ;  for  it  refers  to  that  sore  struggle  for  life 
which  is  going  on  at  this  hour,  in  the  winter  of  1874-75, 
in  New  York,  the  most  advanced  city  of  our  imperilled 
civilization." 

And  when  he  perceives  that  the  word  "petite"  is 
used  as  if  it  were  English,  in  the  following  quota- 
tion, he  will  be  convinced  that  the  author  is  so 
familiar  with  French  that  he  cannot  distinguish  it 
from  his  own  language,  and  will  therefore  abstain 
from  assaulting  him  violently  because  of  his  blun- 
dering pedantry  and  bad  taste : 

"  The  Rev.  William  Lisle  Bowles  is  still  remembered  by 
a  petite  volume  of  sonnets,  only  fourteen  in  number,  highly 
finished,  but  possessing  little  force." 

Mr.  Macbeth  writes  as  might  a  man  who  had  been 
for  a  long  time  the  pedagogue  or  preacher  of  a  com- 


THESE  A  unions. 


2G3 


paratively  ignorant  community,  where,  from  the  fact 
that  all  those  whom  he  was  accustomed  to  meet  were 
unlearned,  he  had  towered  above  his  fellows,  and  by 
common  consent  had  passed  for  Sir  Oracle ;  a  man 
who  had  received  some  knowledge  of  the  classics,  as 
taught  in  our  colleges,  and  possibly  had  made  them 
more  familiar  by  subsequent  study,  followed  as  a 
matter  of  taste  or  professional  occupation ;  and  who 
had  also  some  acquaintance  with  standard  and  pop- 
ular English  literature,  especially  with  certain  reviews 
and  collections  of  witticisms ;  yet  who  in  all  other 
respects  possessed  little  knowledge  other  than  such 
as  could  be  obtained  within  the  four  walls  of  a 
moderately  well-stored  library. 

It  is  needless  to  make  further  quotations  from 
this  book  in  order  to  show  that  its  author's  style  is 
about  as  bad  as  it  can  be ;  or  to  make  manifest  the 
fact  that  he  is  a  very  vicious  guide  in  matters  of 
rhetorical  taste  and  propriety.  Among  the  figures 
which  he  enumerates  are  many  which  he  truly  says 
have  never  before  been  discovered  and  known  as 
such ;  and  it  is  safe  to  prophesy  that,  except  so  far 
as  his  light  extends,  they  will  remain  in  the  ob- 
scurity where  they  have  hitherto  been.  He  shows  a 
notable  want  of  such  analytical  and  discriminating 
power  as  was  absolutely  necessary  to  the  successful 
accomplishment  of  his  plan,  even  had  his  plan  not 
transcended  the  practical,  not  to  say  the  possible. 
Mixed  in  the  mass  of  undigested  matter  which  he 
has  brought  together  hi  this  volume  are  some  sound 


264 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


maxims  and  much  material  that  a  skilful  rheto- 
rician might  use  with  profit  in  making  a  really 
"  artistic  and  scientific"  work  on  figurative  language. 
But  with  all  its  present  contents,  and  with  its  present 
want  of  form,  arrangement,  and  elimination,  "The 
Might  and  Mirth  of  Literature"  is  chiefly  valuable 
as  a  literary  curiosity-. 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


265 


A  RUSSIAN  NOVELIST. 

The  novels  of  Ivan  Serghei'evitch  TurgeniefF,  of 
which  some  translations  have  been  published  in  this 
country,  have  made  that  writer's  name  familiar  to 
many  intelligent  readers  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic. 
So  little  are  Russian  life  and  character  comprehended 
by  us  that  these  works  have,  in  some  way,  the  nature 
of  a  revelation.  This  gentleman  is  the  only  author 
of  that  nationality  whose  writings  have  become 
known  here  to  any  considerable  number  of  persons. 
It  is,  indeed,  true  that  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago  a 
story  by  LermontofF,  entitled  "A  Hero  of  Our 
Time,"  was  found  to  be  strangely  fascinating,  and 
not  altogether  wholesome,  by  a  few  students  of 
foreign  literature,  who  were  fortunate,  or  unfortu- 
nate, enough  to  read  it.  But  no  wide  or  lasting 
impression  was  left  by  this  melancholy  tale  as  a 
literary  product  of  Russia.  Consequently,  Turge- 
nieff  is  likely,  in  general  estimation,  to  be  held  as 
exceptional  and  isolated  among  his  people,  far  above 
them  all  in  genius  and  refinement,  and  the  only  one 
who  has  made  his  way  into  the  world  of  letters. 
And  yet  this  notion  is  altogether  erroneous,  as  is 
well  known  to  the  few  students  who  have  made 

23* 


26G 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


themselves  intimately  acquainted  with  Russian  his- 
tory, and  particularly  with  the  history  and  condition 
of  literature  in  that  country.  It  is  a  fact,  however, 
that,  in  the  judgment  of  well-informed  critics,  the 
author  under  immediate  consideration  stands  at  the 
head  of  writers  of  fiction  in  his  native  language, 
while  his  works  most  favorably  represent  that  class 
of  Russian  literature. 

Mr.  Turgenieff  was  born  in  1818  of  noble  parents, 
in  easy  circumstances,  and  was  educated  at  home,  at 
the  schools  of  Moscow,  at  the  University  of  St.  Pe- 
tersburg, and  at  Berlin,  whither  he  went  at  the  age 
of  twenty  years  to  continue  his  studies,  chiefly  in 
metaphysics,  the  classics,  and  history.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-five  years  he  began  his  literary  career  by  pub- 
lishing a  small  volume  of  poems.  He  became  greatly 
interested  in  the  welfare  of  the  serfs,  and  from  1846 
to  1851  contributed  sketches  of  serf-life  to  a  literary 
journal  and  review  of  Moscow.  These,  with  some 
others,  were  afterwards  published  in  a  volume  called 
"  Memoirs  of  a  Sportsman."  This  book  awakened 
an  interest  and  produced  an  excitement  in  Russia 
like  that  which  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  caused  in  the 
United  States.  TurgeniefFs  book  stimulated  the 
tendency  towards  emancipation,  and  "  its  author  may 
justly  feel,  as  he  does,  that  the  happiest  event  of  his 
life  was  the  reading  of  this  book  by  the  present  em- 
peror, who  himself  declared  that  it  was  one  of  the 
first  incitements  to  the  decree  which  gave  freedom 
to  thirty  millions  of  serfs."    In  1852  the  emperor 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


267 


Nicholas  ordered  that  Turgenieff  be  confined  to  his 
estate,  on  account  of  something  in  one* of  his  publi- 
cations at  which  the  government  took  offence ;  but 
he  was  released  after  two  years  through  the  interces- 
sion of  the  present  emperor,  then  the  Crown-prince 
Alexander.  Since  that  time  he  has,  for  the  most 
part,  lived  in  Germany  and  France. 

Seven  of  this  author's  tales  have  been  published 
in  this  country,  enough  to  furnish  data  for  a  toler- 
ably correct  estimate  of  his  powers  and  character- 
istics as  a  novel-writer.  The  interest  of  his  stories 
is,  to  an  unusual  degree,  independent  of  plot.  It 
is  chiefly  maintained  by  very  vigorous  and  skilful 
development  and  exhibition  of  characters,  by  the 
novelty  of  the  scenes,  which  are  laid  in  Russia,  as 
well  as  the  manners  depicted,  which  are  Russian, 
and  the  home-life  of  Russia  which  he  presents,  more 
especially  as  it  is  on  the  estates  of  the  better  por- 
tion of  the  middle  class.  He  shows  the  subjects  and 
courses  of  thought  aroused  by  the  newly-awakened 
and  increasing  desire  for  greater  freedom,  for  wider 
education,  the  action,  the  civilization,  the  progress 
of  the  western  nations :  he  produces  representatives 
of  the  different  parties  of  students  and  strivers, 
ranging  from  the  man  who  follows,  rather  content- 
edly, the  footsteps  of  his  fathers  to  the  woman  fully 
"  emancipated." 

"  The  room  in  which  they  found  themselves  looked 
more  like  a  work-room  than  a  parlor.  Papers,  letters, 
many  numbers  of  Russian  reviews,  whose  pages  were 


268 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


generally  uncut,  lay  strewn  over  the  dust-covered  tables ; 
ends  of  half-smoked  cigarettes  were  scattered  on  all  sides. 
The  mistress  of  the  house  was  reclining  on  a  leathern 
divan  ;  she  was  still  young,  had  fair  hair  somewhat  dis- 
hevelled, and  was  dressed  in  a  not-entirely  clean  silk ;  a 
lace  handkerchief  covered  her  head,  and  large  bracelets  set 
off  her  hands,  which  had  very  short,  blunt  fingers.  She 
rose  from  the  divan,  and  putting  negligently  over  her 
shoulders  a  velvet  cape,  lined  with  yellowish  ermine,  she 
said  in  a  languishing  voice  to  Sitnikof :  '  Good  morning, 
Victor,'  and  shook  his  hand. 

"  '  Bazarof,  Kirsanof,'  he  said  in  an  abrupt  tone,  imi- 
tating the  manner  of  Bazarof  in  introductions. 

"  '  Be  welcome,'  replied  Madame  Kukshin  ;  and  fixing  on 
Bazarof  her  round  eyes,  between  which  rose  a  poor  little  red 
pug  nose,  she  added ;  '  I  know  you  ;'  and  shook  his  hand  also. 

"  Bazarof  made  a  slight  grimace.  The  insignificant 
little  figure  of  the  emancipated  woman  had  nothing  posi- 
tively ugly ;  but  the  expression  of  her  features  was  dis- 
agreeable. You  would  gladly  have  asked  her, '  What  is  the 
matter  with  you  ?  Are  you  hungry  ?  Are  you  tired  ? 
Are  you  afraid  of  anything?  Why  these  efforts?'  She 
also,  like  Sitnikof,  felt  something  that  continually  scraped, 
as  it  were,  her  soul.  Her  movements  and  her  language 
were  at  once  unconstrained  and  awkward ;  she  considered 
herself,  doubtless,  as  a  good  and  simple  creature,  yet  what- 
ever she  did,  she  always  seemed  to  you  to  have  intended 
doing  something  else." 

Lunch  was  ordered,  and  the  emancipated  woman 
went  on  to  manifest  her  liberty  and  express  her  sen- 
timents : 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


2G9 


"  Eudoxia  rolled  a  cigarette  between  her  fingers,  which 
were  yellow  with  tobacco,  passed  it  over  her  tongue,  sucked 
the  end  of  it  and  bc^an  to  smoke.  ********* 

"  '  I  cannot  remain  indifferent  when  women  are  attacked,' 
continued  Eudoxia ;  'it  is  frightful !  frightful !  Instead 
of  attacking  them,  read  Michelet's  book  De  V Amour ;  it  is 
admirable  !  Gentlemen,  let  us  talk  of  love,'  she  added, 
languishingly  letting  her  hand  fall  on  the  shapeless  cushion 
of  the  divan.  A  sudden  silence  followed  this  appeal.  *  *  *  * 

"  The  lunch  lasted  some  time  longer.  The  first  bottle 
of  champagne  was  followed  by  a  second,  by  a  third,  and 
even  by  a  fourth — Eudoxia  talked  without  interruption ; 
Sitnikof  kept  pace  with  her.  They  discussed  for  some 
time  what  marriage  was,  whether  a  prejudice  or  a  crime ; 
they  examined  the  question  whether  men  were  born  with 
the  same  dispositions,  and  in  what,  properly  speaking,  in- 
dividuality consisted.  Things  came  to  that  point  that 
Eudoxia,  her  cheeks  inflamed  with  wine,  striking  with  her 
flattened  nails  the  keys  of  her  discordant  piano,  began  to 
sing  in  a  hoarse  voice  first  gypsy  songs ;  then  the  romance 
of  Seymour  ShifT ;  '  Sleeping  Grenada  Dreams.'  Sitnikof, 
his  head  turbaned  with  a  scarf,  tried  to  represent  the  re- 
conciled lover,  when  the  singer  pronounced  these  words : 

'  And  my  lips  with  thine, 
Join  in  burning  kisses.' 

"  Arcadi  could  no  longer  restrain  himself.  '  Gentlemen, 
he  said  aloud,  'this  begins  to  remind  one  somewhat  of 
Bedlam.' " 

You  see  that  this  author  handles  a  sharp  pen; 
that  it  makes  graphic  delineations;  that,  while  it 


270 


HOW  THEY  STB  IKE  ME, 


is  one  of  the  readiest  and  most  powerful  to  pro- 
mote political  freedom,  it  is  as  ready  and  as  strong 
to  repress  social  license.  You  note  that  his  discern- 
ment promptly  distinguishes  between  advancement 
and  eccentric  or  destructive  movements;  and  you 
can  perceive  that  the  terrible  force  of  his  warnings 
against  such  movements,  as  well  as  in  regard  to 
stationary  things  that  should  be  reformed,  consists  in 
the  clear,  mirror-like  pictures  which  he  makes  of 
these  things  and  of  these  movements.  After  the 
same  method  he  vigorously  combats  the  exaggerated 
notions,  the  foolhardy  plans,  the  wild  theories  and 
practices  which  find  rapid  growth  among  a  people 
repressed  by  despotism,  yet  wrought  to  a  condition 
akin  to  that  of  revolution  by  questions  of  social  and 
political  amelioration. 

You  may  judge  of  his  skill  in  making  portraits 
from  this  specimen : 

"  A  man  of  middle  height,  wearing  an  English  suit  of  a 
dark  color,  a  low  cravat  in  the  latest  style,  and  varnished 
boots,  entered  the  parlor.  It  was  Paul  Petrovitch  Kir- 
sanof.  He  seemed  to  be  about  forty-five  years  old :  his 
gray  hair,  cut  very  short,  had  the  brilliant  reflection  of 
new  silver ;  his  features,  of  a  bilious  hue,  but  clear  and 
without  wrinkles,  were  very  regular,  and  of  extreme  deli- 
cacy of  contour.  You  soon  noticed  that  he  had  once  been 
very  handsome ;  his  eyes,  black,  clear,  and  oval,  were  es- 
pecially remarkable.  The  elegant  exterior  of  Paul  Petro- 
vitch preserved  still  the  harmony  of  youth,  and  his  step 
had  a  kind  of  spring  that  usually  disappears  after  a  man  is 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


271 


twenty.  Paul  Petrovitch  took  out  of  his  trousers  pocket 
his  beautiful  hand,  with  long  pink  nails,  a  hand  whose 
beauty  was  heightened  by  wristbands  of  a  snowy  whiteness, 
fastened  at  the  wrist  by  large  opals,  and  extended  it  to  his 
nephew.  After  having  given  him  the  European  '  Shake- 
hands,'  he  kissed  him  three  times  in  the  Russian  way,  that 
is,  he  touched  his  cheek  three  times  with  his  perfumed 
moustaches,  and  said  '  Welcome.' 

"  His  brother  presented  Bazarof  to  him ;  he  slightly 
bent  his  slim  body  and  smiled,  but  did  not  extend  his  hand, 
and  even  replaced  it  in  his  trousers  pocket. 

" £  I  had  begun  to  believe  that  you  would  not  arrive  to- 
day,' he  said,  in  a  head-voice,  of  an  agreeable  pitch,  swing- 
ing himself  with  a  graceful  air.  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
and  showing  his  handsome  white  teeth." 

Here  is  another  portrait : 

"  The  young  Cossack  brought  the  Cognac  and  some 
schnapps  on  a  waiter.  Urban  Ivanovitch  took  the  wineglass 
from  the  tray  very  deliberately,  and  looked  at  it  for  a  long 
while  with  deep  attention,  as  though  he  were  not  quite  sure 
what  it  was  he  had  in  his  hand.  Then  he  gazed  at  the 
Cossack,  and  asked  him  whether  Basil  was  not  calling  him. 
He  then  put  on  a  mournful  expression,  drank  off  the  Cog- 
nac, and  began  very  slowly  taking  his  handkerchief  out  of 
his  pocket.  But  the  Cossack  had  already  put  by  the  tray 
and  liquor-bottle,  eaten  what  remained  of  the  schnapps,  and 
succeeded  in  falling  asleep,  whilst  Urban  Ivanovitch  was 
still  fumbling  for  his  handkerchief,  and  gazing  with  the 
same  fixed  stare  at  the  window,  then  at  the  floor,  and  finally 
at  the  wall." 


272 


HO  W  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


He  exhibits  characters  with  skill  as  masterly  as  is 
that  with  which  he  presents  likenesses.  He  seizes  their 
salient  points,  transfers  them  to  his  pages,  and  makes 
them  manifest  after  the  manner  in  which  they  are 
manifested  in  actual  life.  If,  to  reach  these  results, 
he  has  worked  through  laborious  analysis,  he  does  not 
trouble  you  with  the  process.  In  his  method  there 
is  an  appearance  of  artlessness  which  gives  a  certain 
color  of  truthfulness  to  what  he  says,  and  which,  in 
itself,  has  a  peculiar  charm.  He  seems  simply  and 
ingenuously  to  describe  things  as  he  sees  them,  as 
if  by  a  kind  of  intuition.  In  this  way  he  displays 
a  high  order  of  genius,  or  a  consummate  achieve- 
ment of  art ;  but  such  artistic  achievement  demon- 
strates the  possession  of  genius.  This  appearance 
of  candid  narration  is  strengthened  by  occasional 
mention  of  what,  to  us,  have  the  air  of  trivial  and 
inconsequential  incidents.  In  Russia,  howrever,  such 
mention  may,  and  very  likely  does,  have  a  local  sig- 
nificance. 

In  each  of  his  stories  the  leading  characters  are, 
generally,  well  contrasted.  They  are  Russian,  in- 
terested more  or  less  in  questions  of  public  weal,  and 
upon  one  side  or  the  other  of  philosophical,  meta- 
physical, or  social  theories,  such  as  in  this  country 
would  be  commonly  called  isms.  Their  discussions 
of  these  matters  are,  however,  never  long  drawn  out, 
never  heavy,  never  wearisome,  but  terse,  pointed, 
vivacious,  attractive.  Moreover,  they  have  practical 
uses,  for  they  serve  to  display  shades  and  divergen- 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


273 


cies  of  character,  and,  to  some  extent,  they  control 
the  catastrophe. 

Tnrg6nieff  has  little  to  do  with  such  crimes  as  are 
known  to  the  law.  His  men  are  virtuous,  or  have 
such  vices  as  men  of  the  world  consider  venial.  It 
is  with  eccentricities  or  idiosyncrasies  that  he  marks 
them.  Some  coquette  is  his  favorite  motor.  She 
impels  the  movement  and  forces  the  conclusion.  In 
four  out  of  the  seven  stories  mentioned,  a  coquette  is 
exhibited  as  the  leading  feminine  personage.  These 
four  women  differ  from  each  other  in  degree  rather 
than  in  kind.  The  first  is  cold,  passionless,  mis- 
chievous, but,  so  far  as  appears,  decorous.  The 
second  breaks  off  a  match,  nearly  destroys  a  young 
man,  and  is  willing  to  be  as  bad  as  she  can  without 
losing  her  position,  amusements,  and  comforts.  The 
third  recklessly  blights  her  husband's  life  and  her 
own  reputation,  regardless  of  her  child,  and  drives 
a  pure  young  girl,  broken-hearted,  into  a  convent. 
You  would  think  her  to  be  as  vile  as  possible  did 
you  not  read  of  the  fourth,  who  makes  a  bet  with 
her  husband  that  she  will  treat  a  young  man,  who  is 
very  much  enamored  of  and  betrothed  to  a  lovely 
girl,  as  Dido  treated  iEneas  when  they  hunted  to- 
gether; and  she  wins  her  bet.  In  a  devilish  way 
she  breaks  off  this  match,  ruins  this  man,  and  makes 
an  innocent  and  unoffending  family  wretched.  In 
depicting  these  characters,  the  author  goes  on  in 
regular  gradation  from  bad  to  worse.  Of  the  three 
other  stories,  one  describes,  among  other  things,  the 

24 


274 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


conduct  of  two  young  women,  one  of  whom  is  in 
all  respects  as  bad  as  either  of  King  Lear's  elder 
daughters,  while  the  other  shows  every  disposition 
to  emulate  her  sister,  and  in  ingratitude  and  cruelty 
is  fully  her  equal.  The  heroines  of  the  two  remain- 
ing tales  are  decent  girls,  but  in  love-affairs  disobe- 
dient to  parents,  devoted  to  their  lovers,  however, 
and  hesitating  at  no  sacrifice.  To  some  extent,  in- 
deed, they  usurp  the  lover's  place,  after  the  first 
declaration. 

Whether  Mr.  TurgeniefF  handles  such  materials 
from  choice,  or  from  a  desire  to  reform  the  character 
of  his  countrywomen  by  showing  them  their  own 
images  in  a  mirror,  cannot  be  determined  from  any- 
thing contained  in  the  works  before  us.  It  is,  how- 
ever, charitable  to  suppose  that,  in  accordance  with 
the  disposition  heretofore  manifested  by  him  in 
respect  to  political  matters,  he  desires  to  bring  about 
moral  reforms,  and  that  he  is  essaying  to  do  this, 
with  regard  to  a  certain  portion  of  his  country- 
women, by  the  method  in  which  he  so  effectually 
aided  political  amelioration.  That  he  has  such  a 
purpose  can  only  be  inferred  from  the  history  of  his 
previous  labors  and  their  results.  But  even  admit- 
ting this,  we  cannot  believe  that  he  gives  anything 
like  a  just  representation  of  the  Russian  women. 
As  a  general  rule,  it  is  very  unsafe  as  well  as  very 
unjust  to  assume  that  the  characters  portrayed  by 
any  novelist,  always  excepting  the  English,  are 
accurate   samples  of  anything   but   the  smallest 


THESE  A  UTHORS. 


275 


minority  of  the  people  from  among  whom  they  arc 
supposed  to  be  drawn.  It  may  be  that,  like  our 
own  Hawthorne,  he  delights  to  exhibit  wrong-doing 
working  out  its  logical  consequences,  and  that  he 
prefers  to  expose  those  crimes  which  are  not  techni- 
cally such,  though  among  the  most  destructive.  A 
comparison  of  these  two  writers  has,  indeed,  been 
suggested,  but,  so  far  as  appears  from  the  works 
more  especially  under  examination,  such  comparison 
can  hardly  be  sustained.  It  is  true  that  Turgeniei? 
shows  a  marked  tendency  to  deal  with  morbid 
sentiments;  but  he  does  this  as  an  artist  rather 
than  as  a  philosopher.  The  more  morbid  the  sen- 
timent the  more  unusual  the  character,  and  the  more 
salient  the  individuality  of  the  personage.  Crime, 
of  some  kind,  is  the  motive  used  by  many  story- 
tellers, who  are  as  diverse  from  Hawthorne  as  they 
are  from  Dr.  Watts  or  Sir  Isaac  Newton. 

This  author  is  practically  acquainted  with  men 
and  things,  after  the  manner  of  men  of  the  world. 
He  knows  society,  has  learned  its  lessons,  and  has 
felt  its  inflictions. 

"  In  General  Korobine  that  kindliness  which  is  common 
to  all  Russians  was  enhanced  by  the  special  affability 
which  is  peculiar  to  all  persons  whose  fair  fame  has  been 
a  little  soiled." 

"  One  unfortunate  man  immediately  and  from  afar  recog- 
nizes another,  but  in  old  age  he  is  seldom  willing  to  asso- 
ciate with  him.  Nor  is  that  to  be  wondered  at.  He  hes 
nothing  to  share  with  him — not  even  hopes." 


276 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


"  Have  you  ever  noticed,  dear  reader,  that  people  who 
are  very  absent-minded  in  the  company  of  their  inferiors, 
suddenly  lose  that  manner  when  they  enter  the  society  of 
their  superiors  ?  What  can  be  the  reason  of  this  ?  Yet 
why  ask  such  questions?" 

"  He  talked  incessantly,  putting  questions  to  himself, 
and  arguing  upon  them,  touching  upon  now  the  most 
elevated,  now  the  most  ordinary  subjects,  and  finally  so 
wearied  Litvinof  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  shrieking 
with  despair.  For  creating  a  cold  and  dreary  gloom  with- 
out escape  or  remedy,  Pichtchalkin  had  not  his  equal,  even 
among  the  profound  philosophers  who  possess  this  faculty 
in  the  highest  degree.  The  very  appearance  of  his  bold  and 
shiny  head,  his  small  eyes,  and  wofully  regular  nose,  uncon- 
sciously gave  one  the  blues,  while  his  slow  and  monotonous 
baritone  voice  seemed  made  expressly  to  enunciate  in  grave 
and  measured  tones  such  sentences  as  the  following :  Two 
and  two  make  four,  not  three  or  five ;  water  is  a  liquid ; 
benevolence  is  praiseworthy ;  credit  is  indispensable  to  the 
State  as  to  the  individual  in  financial  operations." 

Among  his  personages,  but,  generally,  in  subordi- 
nate parts,  are  good  and  lovely  women.  Yet,  from 
the  characters  of  those  who  are  the  most  important 
to  the  story,  as  well  as  from  other  indications,  you 
are  led  to  doubt  whether  he  really  venerates  the 
more  beautiful  sex : 

"  Tell  a  woman  anything  honestly  and  without  reserve, 
and  she  will  have  no  peace  until  she  has  cooked  up  some 
petty  and  foreign  motive  that  explains  why  you  expressed 
yourself  in  just  that  way  and  no  other." 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


277 


"  Do  you  know  what  the  difference  is  between  the  mis- 
takes of  men  and  those  of  women  ?  You  don't  know  ?  I 
will  tell  you.  A  man  may  say,  for  example,  that  twice 
two  makes,  not  four,  but  five  ;  a  woman  will  say  that  twice 
two  makes — a  wax-candle." 

"  One  day  he  fell  on  his  knees  before  a  lady  whom  he 
hardly  knew,  but  who  had  wearied  him  by  urging  him  to 
taste  some  little  delicacy,  and  began  to  beseech  her  humbly, 
but  with  wrath  plainly  to  be  seen  in  his  face,  to  spare  him ; 
that  he  had  done  nothing  to  reproach  himself  with  in  re- 
gard of  his  conduct  to  her,  and  that  he  would  never  visit 
her  again.  Another  time,  a  horse  ran  away  with  one  of 
Daria  Michaelovna's  washerwomen  down  a  steep  hill,  and 
threw  her  into  a  pit,  nearly  killing  her.  From  that  time 
Pigasoff  never  spoke  of  it  except  as  the  '  good  horse,'  and  the 
hill  and  pit  began  to  seem  to  him  most  picturesque  places." 

"  He  told  her  about  one  of  his  neighbors  who  had  grown 
so  effeminate  by  being  tied  for  thirty  years  to  his  wife's 
apron-string,  that  one  day,  when  stepping  over  a  puddle 
he,  Pigasoff,  had  seen  him  put  his  hands  behind  him  and 
lift  up  his  coat-tails  as  women  do  their  skirts." 

Russian  men  fare  little  better  at  the  hands  of 
this  writer  than  do  the  women.  He  does  not  spare 
their  foibles,  their  follies,  their  extravagance.  He 
chastises  them  for  their  good,  and  for  the  good 
of  their  country.  You  cannot  doubt  his  patriot- 
ism. He  gives  many  incidental  evidences  of  it,  and, 
if  these  do  not  convince  you,  note  that  he  plainly 
declares  it  : 

"  Our  country  can  get  along  without  each  one  of  us,  but 
none  of  us  can  get  along  without  our  country.    It  is  sad 


278 


HOW  THEY  STRIKE  ME, 


for  him  who  thinks  he  can,  and  doubly  sad  for  him  who 
really  does  forget  the  manners  and  ideas  of  his  country. 
Cosmopolitanism  is  nonsense,  a  zero,  a  less  than  zero  ;  out- 
side of  nationality  there  is  no  art,  no  truth,  no  life,  there  is 
nothing  at  all.  Every  ideal  figure  ought  to  represent  a  type, 
at  the  risk  of  at  once  becoming  insignificant  and  vulgar." 

He  entertains  no  sickly  sentimentalism.  He 
knows  and  admits  the  hard  facts,  the  stern  con- 
ditions of  human  existence ;  furthermore,  he  accepts 
them  in  a  truly  philosophic  spirit : 

"  Whatever  blow  may  fall  upon  a  human  being,  he  can- 
not help — reader,  forgive  the  brutality  of  the  phrase — he 
cannot  help  eating  on  that  day  or  the  next,  and  that  is  the 
first  consolation." 

"  I  think  there  are  only  three  misfortunes  in  the  world, 
namely,  living  in  a  cold  room  in  winter,  wearing  tight 
shoes  in  summer,  and  sleeping  in  the  same  room  with  a 
crying  child  which  one  can't  whip." 

He  frequently  gives  expression  to  religious  feel- 
ing, often  to  conviction,  sometimes  to  doctrine  that 
would  not  be  rejected  by  the  sternest  Calvinist: 

"Each  one  of  us  sins  in  that  he  merely  lives ;  nor  is 
there  a  great  thinker  or  benefactor  of  humanity,  who,  by 
reason  of  his  wisdom  or  by  reason  of  his  goodness,  can 
believe  that  he  has  a  right  to  live." 

His  pathos  is  unaffected  and  truly  tender.  Wit- 
ness the  aged  father  and  mother  at  the  grave  of  their 
skeptical  and  only  son  : 


THESE  AUTHORS. 


279 


"  This  grave  is  that  of  Eugene  Bazarof.  Two  persons, 
a  husband  and  his  wife,  bending  under  the  weight  of  years, 
often  come  from  a  little  neighboring  village  to  visit  it ; 
leaning  on  one  another,  they  slowly  approach  the  railing, 
fall  on  their  knees,  and  weep  long  and  bitterly,  keeping 
their  eyes  long  fixed  on  the  mute  stone  which  covers  their 
son  ;  they  exchange  a  few  words,  wipe  away  the  dust  which 
covers  the  tombstone,  straighten  a  branch  of  fir,  then  begin 
to  pray  again,  and  cannot  make  up  their  minds  to  leave  the 
spot  where  they  believe  themselves  nearer  to  their  son, 
nearer  to  his  memory." 

It  is  plain  enough  that  this  author,  in  the  books 
published  here,  has  shown  no  very  wide  range  of 
invention.  His  stories  are,  for  the  most  part,  ample 
variations  of  one  theme.  These  variations  are  fresh, 
strong,  and  sufficiently  unlike  one  another  to  give 
the  whole  work  to  which  they  belong  an  air  of  new- 
ness. Each  variation  presents  some  more  or  less 
novel  aspects  of  Russian  life  and  manners,  as  well  as 
several  new  turns  of  character.  If  a  dramatist, 
Turgenieff  would  compose  comedies,  of  the  higher 
kind,  rather  than  tragedies.  As  has  been  intimated, 
his  plots  are  of  the  simplest  sort,  hardly  Avorthy  the 
name ;  the  history  of  a  single  passion,  the  formation, 
hardening,  and  manifestation  of  one  or  more  peculiar 
dispositions.  These  things  are  done  with  masterly 
vigor  and  skill  by  a  pen  that  with  one  stroke,  as  it 
were,  can  give  you  a  clear  notion  of  a  personage, 
thus  :  "  He  tried  to  give  himself  dignified  airs,  as  if 
he  were  not  a  human  being,  but  his  own  statue  erected 


280  HO  W  TUFA'  STRIKE  ME,  THESE  A  UTHORS. 


by  national  subscription."  In  this  lively  presenta- 
tion of  characters  a  great  part  of  the  interest  excited 
by  these  stories  may  be  found.  But  the  reader  also 
sympathizes  with  the  lovers,  fears  the  coquette  and 
her  works,  and  is  in  dread  lest  she  accomplish  her  evil 
purposes,  break  the  young  girl's  heart,  and  do  other 
irreparable  mischief.  And  yet  the  attractiveness  of 
these  books  is  a  kind  of  fascination  wrought  in  a 
subtle  manner,  hard  to  define  sharply  and  clearly,  by 
the  author's  genius,  rather  than  the  all-absorbing 
concern  for  the  progress  of  the  tale  and  the  dis- 
entanglement of  the  plot,  in  which  novel-readers 
greatly  delight. 

A  French  novel  in  which  should  be  turned  to 
account  materials  like  these  which  Mr.  Turgenieff 
uses,  would,  according  to  English  and  American 
standards,  at  once  be  declared  immoral.  In  this 
respect  the  quality  of  a  book  lies  more  in  the  treat- 
ment than  in  the  subject-matter;  and  the  Russian's 
manner  of  dealing  with  these  questionable  things  is 
very  different  from  that  most  common  among  Gallic 
authors.  On  a  thoroughly  healthy  moral  organiza- 
tion his  narrations,  probably,  would  produce  no  dele- 
terious effect;  but  that  they  may  not  be  injurious  to 
a  different  class  of  readers  it  would  be  unsafe  to 
assert.  Yet,  however  opinions  as  to  the  merits  and 
demerits  of  his  works  may  differ,  all  must  agree  that, 
as  a  man  of  peculiar  genius,  of  education,  of  refine- 
ment, of  lofty  aims,  and  of  worthy  achievements, 
Russia  has  good  reason  to  be  proud  of  him. 


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